the afghaneeland epic continues !

Col. Sheena Johnson, U.S. Army


episode 23

Capt’n Fiddler Parachutes Into Pluckame


Ahhhhhhh, catapulting soaring roaring glory!

The boldness, the common sense of the U.S. Secretary of Defense!

Chuck Hagel has sold the entire U.S. Air Force’s A-10 Warthog Fleet

To the Afghan National Army for one dollar!


With a lot of training & expensive accoutrements

Now the ANA gots its own aging, rattling, deadly air-support

This Chuck is proud of that Chuck

For doing the right Chuck Chuck thing!


I am Capt’n Chuck Fiddler of the U.S. Army

Pulling my ripcord over the Nuristan Province of

Not Afghanistan, but Afghaneeland

A bubble full of wishful thinking inside my mind


A tiny dumb-ass bubble that refuses to pop

But that floats like a prayer in the ethereal reaches

Of a poor old soldier’s mind, so yes

I am parachuting out of a Warthog aeroplane above Pluckame!


Inside this strange bubble that will not stop

I’ve been training Afghan soldiers to fly

Now like a rain drop I am about to plop

At the feet of Col. Sheena Johnson


I shall serve wherever my empress be

Be it Afghanistan & be it free

So I float from above

To back the colonel’s love!


Yes, I float & whirl & twirl

Caught in a vortex of air swirling grand

Afghaneeland’s atmosphere gots a mind of its own

It looks like I’ll never land!!!




Afghaneeland Adventure Series

text copyright clyde collins 2015


for u.s. president









     With eyes closed he grew numb under the cold shower in the TAMC barracks, and pretended he was standing under an icy waterfall in the mountains.  The hot water was not working this Saturday morning ~ again.

     With a towel tied around his waist he was stepping across the hallway to his cave-like room when Pvt. 1 Tom Weasel stopped him and said, “Wanna smoke a joint, Duty?”

     “No no no no,” replied PFC Donald Duty, invigorated from the cold shower.  “I don’t smoke it no mo’.”

     “Well, how you gonna be mellow if you don’t smoke it no mo’?” said Weasel.

     “I chant,” said Duty ~ and he locked himself up in his room.  He put on some clothes, opened the curtain, twirled open the window, sat down in front of a most beautiful sky and let the trade winds kiss his cheek.  Sure enough, he began to chant:

     “Ku ana ‘o Laka i ka mauna,

     Noho ana ‘o Laka i ke po ‘o oka ‘ohu.

     ‘O Laka kumu hula,

     Nana i ‘a ‘eka waokele…”

     Outside, a misty cloud white and purple upon the hilltop, gently tumbled forward.  The cloud transformed into a pretty face with depthless eyes and a supple body with graceful moves.  It was obvious ~ Laka, the hula goddess, had arrived ~ and was dancing in the sky!

     From the colorful lei hanging from her neck and tossing to and fro, there fell a flower.  It landed on the window pane in front of Duty.  “Mahalo, my beloved,” said Duty.

     He reached for the flower.  As soon as he touched it, the flower turned into a diving mask and snorkel.  Duty whispered to the suddenly clear blue sky, “Ah, I know what I’m going to do today!”

     With swimming trunks rolled up in a towel and Laka’s gift in his hand, Duty darted out of the barracks.  Sp4 Joe Honor and Sp4 John Country were about to drive away in Country’s automobile.  Duty flagged them down.

     “What’s up?” said Duty.

     “We’re going snorkeling!” replied Honor and Country in baritoned chorus.

     “Oh, can I go?  Oh, please, guys, please!”

     “Hop in,” smirked Country.

     In a cove about a half mile on the other side of Waimea Falls, located on the North Shore, the three off-duty TAMC soldiers floated around above another world ~ Fish World ~ and occasionally dove deeply into it ~ all day long.  The surface of the sea was smooth as glass and you could see forever ~ even underwater.  The many colored fishes were sassy as could be.

     Later back at the barracks, played out and cleansed of worry, Duty stepped around two MPs and a drug detection dog ~ German Shepherd type ~ in the hallway.  The dog was howling in front of Weasel’s barracks-room door.





secret agent

bred in



The Terrible Truth & One Thousand Lies

 This One


On The House


by Rawclyde!



     The music pounded like a locomotive.  The go-go girl followed it like a train.  And every patron in the bar was her caboose.

     Her nucleus of sexuality, hardly covered by a little white bikini bottom oh so snug, exploded, poetically speaking, all over the stage.

     She aimed it at a poor hobo and pumped him a few.  She would never know how much he appreciated that.  She did the bump ‘de bump with a lonely soldier boy’s ambition and ground to pieces an old cowboy’s sadness.  Boldly she stepped up close to a wicked man’s leer, crouched low and with her hands ludicrously rammed it in and out.

     Her fat, shapely, little belly, a masterpiece so tan, so smooth, so hot, was just about smoking like a home on fire.  Her belly button was the sun.  Her stage, more than just creaking wood, was the face of every feller’s drifting dream.

     She really knew how to dance.

     Like a snake, like a swan, like a cloud, like a shooting star, like the terrible truth and a thousand lies.  Nobody, absolutely nobody played pool when Philana danced.

     A tall stranger sauntered into the place.  Infront of the go-go bar’s stage, or ramp, he stoically stood ~ watched the go-go girl go-go.  His presence loomed so profoundly that the hooting, guffawing, and even the silent dreaming of all the Saturday night patrons ~ died.  He was that rare kind of guy.  Besides, except for a preposterous, black, cowboy hat on his head, he was naked.

     The go-go tune ended.

     Nobody clapped.  Usually everybody clapped, and a few would holler, when Philana finished a number.  But due to this stranger’s strange naked presence ~ not this time.

     An old drunk accidently knocked over a glass of beer.  He ducked his head sheepishly.  Not a soul moved.  Deep silence reigned.

     The stranger, lewdly handsome, smiled just a little bit at the intrigued saloon girl who was now standing still in the quiet limelight.  She rested her hand on her smooth hip, eyeballed the stranger up and down ~ especially down.  She was out of breath.  Her round, bare, little breasts gently rose and fell.

     “What?  What?  Are you trying to corrupt this town?”  she finally asked of him ~ her smile twitching.

     “No,” replied the stranger with an unobtrusive chuckle.  “Just escaped from jail.  All I could grab on my way out was ~ my hat.”

     Another working girl, scantily clad, quietly served him a beer.  “The bartender says this one is on the house,” she whispered.

     The stranger nodded gratefully, toasted the bartender, lifted the frosty mug to his thirsty lips.

     Philana rested a high-heeled foot on the bar that encircled the ramp.  She was staring at the stranger with not just her eyes, it seemed, but also with the provocative bulge of her snuggly, barely veiled, dynamite-packed pussy, which was at the same level as the stranger’s face and just a few inches away.  “What’s your name?” she asked.

     “Bogie,” drawled the stranger.  He ignored the saloon girl’s poignantly flaunted mound, squinted up into the soul in her brown bottomless eyes.  “Nick Bogie.”

     “I’m Philana,” said Philana.  Music began to play again.  Some fool howled.  There was laughter.  And cigarette smoke.  The woman and the man stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

     Then ~

     “Let’s ball, Bogie!” cried Philana like a whip.  Her eyes squinted full of tears.  Her thigh quivered.  The man to whom she had spoken held open his arms.

     She jumped.

     He carried her out the door like a bride.

One Night At The Stone Fox

~ I ~

The Boys

And Mission Gorge

     Tonight was going to be a big night for Pee Wee Johnson.  He sat at the stage, near the side door, and watched the young woman dance.  Tonight was going to be his molotoff cocktail ~ no matter what.

     His finger slipped a tremble around the rim of his half-full beer glass.  The go-go music to which the half-naked dancer was blooming like a fast motion rose, was nothing compared to the drums pounding in Pee Wee’s head.

     A thousand drums.

     There were two other young men sitting at the stage.  They were alone too ~ just like Pee Wee.  One of the two was Nick Bogie.  The other was Slim Chance.  These three boys visited the place regularly.  The place was The Stone Fox.

     “When you go to the bathroom, woman, let me know, ’cause I wanna eat the peanuts out of your shit!” yelled Nick Bogie at the strutting dancer.  He laughed like a loud joke in the middle of a vegetable garden.

     The dancer stuck her tongue out at him and made a prancing detour on the stage.

     Slim Chance watched and that was all.  His glass was empty.  A sensuously dressed working girl walked up behind him ~ perfectly.  “Want another beer?”

     Slim nodded.

     The topless go-go girl on the stage did her thing, her routine and her bread.  She was dynamite.  She was also exhausted.  It was almost midnight on a slow Monday.

     The music boomed.

     The drums in Pee Wee Johnson’s head banged along.  The dancer tossed a quick glance at Pee Wee.  He was a very short guy, maybe four feet high when he stood tall as he could and in elevator shoes.  The dancer rolled her eyeballs.  She couldn’t believe what she saw in Pee Wee’s eyes.  She did a special wiggle, shot another glance at him.  God, the little squirt looked unusually mean tonight (because, you see, tonight was his night for real action).

     “You’re giving me a heart attack, woman!”  yelled Nick Bogie at the dancer.  She smiled.  “In my pants!” snidely added Bogie.

     Crude bastard.

     He was a big guy.  A handsome guy.  And pretty drunk.  You see, he was having trouble at home.  His wife didn’t like him anymore.  Like mad he wanted to ask the dancer out to dinner.  But he just couldn’t get serious enough in this place.

     But Pee Wee Johnson was very serious, sitting over by the side door.

     Mission Gorge, by the way, was the name of the dancer.


~ II ~

Pee Wee Makes His Move

     The place rocked on.  The bartender let the beer flow.  The bouncer sat slumped over in the corner, bored, wishing he didn’t have to constantly put up with “flakey chicks.”  While Mission Gorge stomped her third song away on the stage, the other girls, “flakey chicks,” kept the glasses full and the pitchers too.

     Slim Chance also wanted to ask Mission Gorge out for dinner but figured it was hopeless.  A year ago he had caught a venereal desease that would stay with him until the day he died.  What was the point in asking a woman out to dinner, he figured, if there was no possibility of a screwing ~ some day?  So his entire life was hopeless.  Forever he would just sit and watch.

     Mission Gorge buttoned up and darted off the stage.  Quiet moments passed.  “You’re up, Sheila!”  moaned the bouncer.

     Sheila ascended the stage, pushed the buttons to her selected hit tunes and commenced in doing her thing just as Mission Gorge had done hers ~ about 100 times a night it seemed to these young women.

     Mission Gorge shyly dashed across the saloon, flashed by Slim Chance and Nick Bogie, her skin a glow, crispy light hair a flowin’ down her back, a ghost like look of prettiness on her face.  Her eyes swung around like machine guns aiming at empty beer glasses in the dim light ~ and full ash trays.  She was a gorgeous portrait etched in lightning.  She was always too quick.

     But not tonight.

     “Mission!” called Pee Wee, as she was about to flash by him too.  She detoured on over, cautiously, as if Pee Wee was a dangerous dreamer who thought he loved her.  And that’s exactly what he was!

     Gently he took her arm in his hand.  Nice.  Then his fingers went tight like a vice.  Mission Gorge locked her eyes onto his ~ saw his bright red desperation.  Her eyes grew wide with fear.  The gleam in his eye was too damn serious!  The world stood stark raving still for half a second.

     “What?” Mission Gorge managed to ask.

     “Oh nothin’,” said Pee Wee.  He picked her up in his arms and smashed out the side door into the night.


~ III ~

Prelude To The Kidnapping

Of Mission Gorge

     A few months earlier ~

     Pee Wee Johnson was sitting before the lone window in his hole-in-the-wall, watching the sun go down, when he decided he was so lonely and horny that he wanted to die.

     He had worked hard all day long on his job.  He lit a small cigar.  He watched the sun sink.  He partook of a gulp of cold beer from the can in his hand.  He listened to the cowboy music on his cheap little stereo.  A puff of tobacco smoke from his cigar somersaulted against the window and bloomed into nothing.

     “Shit, I wanna die,” he muttered.  But he got up and pedaled his bicycle to a local go-go bar instead ~ The Stone Fox.

     He ordered a pitcher of beer and watched the girls dance topless.  Then Mission Gorge stepped on stage.  He was in love.

     She wasn’t the prettiest.  She wasn’t the best dancer.  But Pee Wee liked the way she moved ~ quick, haughty, and she did funny things ~ funny things like wearing Slim Chance’s hat on her breasts as she danced, and balancing Nick Bogie’s tossed quarters on her nipples after the hat fell off.  There were two real sad looking dudes sitting at the stage and she had them laughing in no time.

     And Pee Wee too.

     He became a regular.  He wanted to ask Mission Gorge out to dinner just like Nick Bogie and Slim Chance ~ and two dozen other guys.  But this go-go bar just wasn’t Pee Wee’s territory.  And Mission Gorge was always too quick to ask out ~ always passed by in a flash ~

     A portrait etched in lightning.

     And anyway, Pee Wee was a Negro ~ a Negro who liked cowboy music.  What a drag!

     One night he looked at himself in the long mirror on the closet door in his hole-in-the-wall.  He was just four feet tall ~ in elevator shoes.  Women just didn’t see anything in this city except how tall you were.  Yet Pee Wee was determined to not go to bed with Jose, the Mexican homo.

     “Shit,” moaned Pee Wee.  A tear rolled down his cheek.  He put on some of that fine shit-kicking music ~ got out a book.

     He read the book for a while.  And had an idea.  He slammed the book down on the table and gritted at the walls, “Guts!”


~ IV ~

The Quiet Ride

     The big ol’ bouncer bolted to his feet and hollered, “Mission Gorge!  She’s been carried away!  By that little, little ~ ” He couldn’t finish what he was saying ~ sprinted for the side door.

     “Bastard!” growled the bartender.  He knocked over a pitcher of beer, screeched around the corner of the bar like a dragster (with smoking heels instead of tires) and followed the bouncer out the side door.

     Nick Bogie jumped across the stage and dove out the side door after them.

     Even passive Slim Chance ~ out the side door.

     With his 100-pound load and an “umph!” Pee Wee waddled across the street to a parked rented car.

     “What are you doing?” screamed Mission Gorge in his arms, wondering whether or not she should laugh.  Pee Wee was pretty strong for such a little guy.

     “Nothin’,” gritted Pee Wee and threw her in the driver’s side of the car.  She bumped her head.  He hopped in after her and slammed the door shut, locked it as the bouncer grabbed the exterior handle.  Mission Gorge decided not to laugh after her bump on the head and threw herself against the other door.  The inside handle had been removed.

     “Damn,” she moaned and turned to Pee Wee.  “You better let me out of here or I’ll bust your balls!”

     Pee Wee started the engine and his rented car ~ a ’79 Buick with a tired automatic transmission ~ screeched away amidst burning rubber and exhaust and night time neon ~ through a red light.  The bouncer bounced off the bumper and fell in the gutter next to an empty half-pint whiskey bottle.

     The bartender, meanwhile, hustled back inside to the telephone, of course, to call the cops.

     Nick Bogie and Slim Chance stood side by side on the sidewalk and scratched their heads in the night.

     “Damn nigger,” muttered Nick Bogie with his chest out.

     “Takes courage to do that,” said Slim Chance.  He pulled his hat down in a philosophical way.

     The bouncer was on his feet, in about half a second was seated in the driver’s seat of his own slick sports car ~ a late-model deep-sea blue jaguar ~ and in hot pursuit.

     But Pee Wee lost him.

     And the cops never got there.

     The passing neon lights of the city caressed the flushed cheek of the Stone Fox starlet.  The handle to the window on that side of the car had been removed also.  Pee Wee rolled down his own window and smiled.

     “Hi, Mission,” he said.

     She glared at him in disbelief.  But the sudden quiet in the car, like nicely chilled milk, poured into her ears, filled up an empty soul, after having spent so many hours in that damn bar.  She decided to kick back and enjoy the subdued poetry of the situation.

     After a long moment she smiled nervously.  “Hello, Pee Wee.”

     He glanced at her, stretched his arm across the top of the steering wheel ~ relaxed.  “I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”

     “We’ve never been this close to each other with nobody else around.”

     Pee Wee nodded.

     They rolled along ~ hit a freeway ramp ~ speeded up.  Pee Wee rolled the window up ~ opened the wing-a-ding.

     “How come you did that?” asked Mission Gorge.

     “Did what?”

     “Kidnapped me!”  She laughed.

     “Well.”  Pee Wee pondered.  “Well.  I wanna ask you out to dinner.  But I can never get myself to do it at the Stone Fox ~ which happens to be the only place I ever see you at.  So I had to get you outta that place some how.  And so ~ ”  He reached over to the glove compartment, opened it.  And stuck a cigarette into Mission Gorge’s mouth ~ her favorite brand.  He lit it for her with the car’s cigarette lighter.

     “Thank you,” said the young lady.  She opened the wing-a-ding on her side of the car.  She blew a slow stream of smoke out in front of her face.  “It feels good to sit down,” she said.

     Pee Wee smiled.  “Will you go out to dinner with me?”


     Pee Wee’s smile disappeared.  “Why not?”

     “I’ve got two kids and an old man,” said Mission Gorge.

     “Oh.”  Pee Wee slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.  “I should have known!”

     “Good try, Pee Wee.  Real Good.”

     “Is he a good old man?”

     “He’s okay.”  Her eyes went neon.

     They zoomed along the freeway into the night, surrounded by emptiness, plenty of room for talk.

     “You see, Pee Wee, all you guys back at the club, you all are patrons.  I’ve gotta keep my distance.  Mission Gorge isn’t even my real name!  I dance for you and serve you.  You pay for my bread and my shed ~ and the shed I have is some pretty nice shelter.  Understand?”


     “Now I gotta get back to work.”

     “What for?  Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?”

     “‘Cause I’m getting nervous.”

     Pee Wee Johnson re-navigated the vessel toward Mission Gorge’s harbor of labor.  They sailed in silence.  A few blocks away from their destination Mission suddenly said, “Stop the car.”

     He did.

     She slid over, put her arms around his neck and gave him a long slow kiss.  Pee Wee Johnson, to say the least, was surprised.  It was a kiss to be reckoned with.  It was a kiss that could re-write encyclopedias ~ and inspire clouds in the sky to “moo” like cows.

     Later that night ~

     When Pee Wee was walking the path to his hole-in-the-wall, he was greeted in the shadows by Jose, the Mexican homo.

     “Hello, handsome,” coo-ed Jose.

     “What’s happening?” muttered Pee Wee.

     “Ohhhhhhh, not much,” coo-ed Jose.  He rested his hand on the little negro’s shoulder.

     Ordinarily Pee Wee would have stiffened.  But tonight he settled back on his heels, gazed up into the dark taunting eyes of Jose.  Upon the smaller fellow’s lips a little smile began to play.  Pee Wee’s hand near his hip rolled itself into a tight fist.  He brought it way way way back ~

     And decked the batata.



fiction by Rawclyde!


pretty gal photos courtesy of Anja Rubik        ~         text copyright Clyde Collins 1989 2010

Limping Rooster Molly


a short story by Rawclyde!



      My feet in their boots were man and woman happily making babies called footprints ~ along the highway side.  Every pebble, empty beer can, and weed was my brother.  It was butterfly season.  They with rainbow wings were my sisters ~ fluttering all about me.  It was very nice.

     The traffic zoomed by.  I saw nobody I knew in those chrome flashes.  They were all strangers.  Alienation from my brethren species ~ at the moment it didn’t bother me a bit.  Behind a boulder I jumped, closed my eyes, had me a cigar.  The dry smoke in my mouth was a love affair.

     Yes, it was very nice.  When I found a discarded bottle in a nook between a weed and a rock next to where I sat ~ one third full of my favoritie apple wine ~ I knew the angels were on my side.  Gulp ‘de gulp ~ I partook of their nectar.

     The foolosophies of a road scholar begin to tip over Empire State Buildings at moments like this.  Leaning in awkward comfort against the boulder, feet outstretched upon the ground, I of the most worped twisted of faiths, began to generalize on silly universalities between my ears.  Endless circles they spiraled upward ~ ’til they were mellowly trimming God’s toe nails again.  The Author of all things, as Jules Verne used to call Him, was my pal.

     But I was alone.  Yes, a portrait of repose only for myself.  Where was my more earthly love?

     Bah!  I stuck out my thumb and caught a ride.

     “Hello there,” I said.

     He had a car as long as a warship, but with ear rings ~ and didn’t like cigar smoke.

     “I am an ex-principal of an elementary school on vacation to no-where,” he said.  “With a lot of nice clothes and a Humpty Dumpty body ~ a good egg I am ~ soft boiled delightfully ~ ready to please.  Yum yum.  How are you?”

     His beady little eyes looked me up and down ~ and I had a ride with Road Homo.

     “What is your impression of me?” reached forth he with a tender anxious tongue.

     “You’re a friendly gentle old homo,” said I.

     He blinked ~ changed lanes ~ and we almost got in a wreck with a prehistoric cave-woman truck.

     “Do you want a blow job?” he panted.


     He gulped a little bit.  “Do you want a blow job?

     I gulped a little bit.  “No.”

     “Okay, that’s that,” he said.

     “You’re right,” I said.

     I stepped out of his glossy highway boat, complimented by the fact that he craved my John Barleycorn Man in bed with his Lady Mishap.

     “I don’t like women,” he said.

     “What’s the name of this town?” I asked.

     “Limping Rooster, Texas.”

~ continued below ~


     Our farewells butted heads and I strolled down the street, part of the parade of life in a small city with a hill in the middle of it.  Limping Rooster, I thought.  The name of this town is too much already!

     “What’s that hill doing there?” I asked a passing young lady strolling on a leash an extraordinary yellow polka-dotted Irish setter.

     A ruthless glint in the girl’s eye shot my soul full of holes.  Her nose climbed into the air.  Her dog wagged his tail past me.  This nothing reply sent a shiver up my spine ~

     And I shrugged it off.

     Lean, unshaven, dirty ~ I pulled my cap low over my eyes ~ commenced in getting pissed off at this string of events anyway ~ walked as cool as I could into a laundromat to, of course, wash my dirty laundry.

     All this time I was carrying a small rug rolled up and tied with two of my father’s old neckties, which made a neat bum’s bundle ~ full of dirty laundry.

     I’m not really a bum.

     This particular laundromat had people in it who I swear felt foolish as they did their laundry and blushed.  One young no-good slipped off his jacket, threw his shirt into a machine, slipped his jacket back on, shrugging his shoulders about twelve times as he did so.  I wanted to shout across the chug-a-lug room, “Ole!  Brother!”

     Meanwhile little children ran circles around him, knocking over baskets and tables and kicking wash machines, slipping and falling and hollering as they did so ~ with an embarrassed train of mothers behind them, hollering also, but not so gleefully.

     A young woman with a melon midriff got up and walked to a chugging machine, opened its lid, peered in, blushed, and sat back down.

     There I was, stupid looking myself, entrenched in the midst of it all.  As I folded my meager clothes, an older but smaller man with a lot of little grins stood opposite me.  He was folding about four trillion pure white towels into big stacks in front of his nose ~ and my nose too.

     Why did this man have so many white towels?  Was he taking care of a gym?  Did he own a hotel?  Did he steal them from a hospital?  Was he insane ~ and bought them?  Or did he simply have a fondness for fresh white towels?

     He was very careful about folding them ~ like they belonged to his mother and he gained pride and self-esteem by pleasing her.  The laundromat was his church ~ a church full of people doing their laundry ~ their act of praying.  He was at ease here, taking care of his trillions of white towels.

     He kept winking at me whenever I glanced at him ~ like we knew something nobody else knew.  I got a little nervous, quietly figured out he was Laundromat Homo.

     I tripped toward the girl with the melon midriff.  In mid flight it was a good opportunity to ask her if she had the time.  “Do you have the time?” I asked as I fell through the air.

     She pretended like I didn’t say anything ~ started to dig in her straw purse the size of a suitcase.

     “Pardon me, do you have the time?”  I asked again as I got up off the floor.

     She didn’t even giggle at my clumsy trick.  She shook her head at me.  One of her eyes was blue.  The other one was green.  Her blue eye was beautiful.  I could have done without the green one.  A shiver crawled like a snake up my spine as she looked away.  In her hand was a giant baby blue comb (almost the same color as her one blue eye) she had found in her purse.  She ran the comb through her hair ~ clean fragrant coconut hair ~ and tossed a glance at me (actually, her green eye was kind of beautiful too).  Her glance seemed to say:  aren’t you gone yet?  I wanted to be the comb.

     Another shiver crawled like a snake up my spine, this one in electric panic, when Laundromat Homo jumped toward me with a watch on his wrist with freckles.

     “Thank you,” I said, as I looked at his watch and saw his freckles.

     “You’re welcome, young man,” he purred ~ and smiled ~ and winked.

     I turned to the window for a change of scene.  A traffic light outside turned green and a gang of cars made a mad rush for another traffic light that turned red.  I believe my brow wrinkled a bit as I caught sight of the hill in the middle of Limping Rooster ~ just a little bit above the traffic lights, roof tops, telephone poles, and TV antennas.

     “What is that hill doing there?” asked I of Laundromat Homo.

     He frowned ~ buried himself in his neat stacks of towels.  From behind one of the glowing clean stacks he peeked like a cookoo clock birdie ~ and winked at me.  His nose reminded me of a raspberry pale with the flu, taking a cold shower, just so it could dry off in all those white towels.

     As I walked out of the laundromat I wondered why so many men were homos lately.  Was it like this in every age or just the one into which I was born?  And why were so many people uptight about homos?  Especially me.

     On the other hand, why didn’t I understand women?  How come I always said the wrong thing to them and got nothing from them but weird looks?  How come all I ever met was homos?

     Was I a homo?

     I didn’t like the idea of being queer.  What I needed was a wife ~ and I needed one bad.  Was that why us baffled boys of the world got married ~ because we were afraid we would become homos if we didn’t?  I wanted to explore the country, its people, its cities, study the life situation of the earth, learn to be a good man ~ and go to bed with a woman here and there ~ not with a bunch of homosexuals every where!

     Of course it was silly of me to be thinking this way just because the last two people who were friendly to me were also homos ~ and the last two people to write me off as a bad ticket to unpleasantries were women.  Anyway, maybe Laundromat Homo, who happened to be following me in his station wagon, wasn’t really a homo.

     I stopped in the midst of making my now invisible footprint babies on the sidewalk ~ next to a street of noisy Limping Rooster traffic of chrome.  I squinted at he who was following me in his station wagon, the back of which, of course, was neatly stuffed full of folded white towels.  The station wagon slowed down, pulled over beside me.  He leaned over, rolled the window down and said, “Hi!  Wanna come to my place for a little drink?”

     “Are you a homo?” I asked.

     He giggled sweetly, caressed my belt buckle with a tender finger.

     “No thanks,” I said and continued walking.  Also, I had this uncanny urge to crush his nose into raspberry juice with my fist.  But that sort of behavior isn’t polite, humane, or necessary.

     I glanced back curiously to see if ~ yes ~ he was watching my scrumptious lean butt wiggle as I walked down the street.  If he ever tried to touch me again I was ready to spank him until his nose at least bled a little.

     I was also hungry.

     At the order window of the hot dog restaurant on the corner I hoped there would be a young woman with a friendly smile.  But that wasn’t the case.  Instead, there was a tall lanky young man with pimples, yellow teeth that were crooked, and a crew cut (yes, in the year 1973).  He moved like a giant squid at the bottom of a sea of city, as he slopped my hot dog together, with onions and mustard and live sardines.

     “Thanks,” I said ~ handed him a dollar bill.  With a lovely smile he handed me back four cents and an expensive hot dog.  I thought I saw a green worm crushed and dying between his two front crooked teeth.  Whether that be fact or fancy, I am not sure.  But his wet fingers lingered in the palm of my hand, which jerked away, dropping the four cents all over the sidewalk.

     God help us both!

     I staggered away, worms in my head, a hot dog with live sardines in my mouth, rot in my soul.  An old gray man hobbling along with a cane in his hand, brilliantly smiled at me.  “Good morning,” he chirped.

     “No it isn’t,” said I with a frown, anxious to get out of Limping Rooster.  I wondered if he was a homo.  When I felt the tip of his cane poke me in the butt, I ceased wondering, and ran across the street like a baseball hit with a bat.

     A girl in a flimsy blouse with no sleeves, and shorts with no belt, and with feet with no shoes, with long blond hair and a pert pretty nose ~ not to mention her round little boobs that were apples with nipple stems under her flimsy blouse ~ gave me a look as if she wished I would have gotten run over as I home-runned across the street at her.  She dodged out of the way and said, “Ech!”

     “What’s wrong?” I cried.  Tears burned in the corners of my eyes.

     She ignored my question, walked casually along as if I was a parking meter that talked, asking for money from pedestrians.

     “Shit,” I muttered.

     Little pebbles of fear seemed to grow in my toes as I walked down the sidewalk.  It was like they grew grew grew ~ into boulders ~ entered my blood stream and tumbled into my head where my faith ran in circles trying to get away from them.  My heart became clogged with these boulders, coughed along its beat beat beat with big base drum echoes.  The veins in my arms nervously sang, playing boulders instead of guitars.  I was a walking rock concert playing a tune of woe, confusion, and doubt.

     Then it happened.  At the worst of moments, when I was full of doubts as to what I was, what Limping Rooster was, what the world was!

     Yes, it happened.  I was watching the flight of a bird ~ a white dove ~ yes, in Texas!  I watched it fly an arch across the sky.  It perched on top of a billboard just above my head ~ a billboard advertising mouth-wash that pictured two men with their eyes closed, kissing each other on the lips!

     The biggest of boulders ~ granite ~ shot up my throat ~ burned in my mouth ~ hot as blunt hell ~ burst out between my lips in the unpleasant form of lava.  It was what was left of the hot dog ~ down the front of my shirt into the gutter of Limping Rooster.

     One little sardine, still alive and flippin’, swam away.

     Upon one knee I involuntarily fell, shut my eyes, shook my head, wiped my face.  I got up, dizzy, and walked on.

     I jammed a cigar between my teeth ~ forgot to take off the wrapper ~ tried it again without the wrapper and lit it with the ninth match struck.

     Now I was a walking strike-out covered with puke.  A girl in a red dress walking up the sidewalk saw me, turned around and ran.  A man behind her asked me if I’d like to take a shower at his place.

     “Hell no!” I yelled ~ and hit him across the head with my rug.  This happened next to a canyon and he rolled down into it winking at me and throwing kisses.

     I stepped into a telephone booth, slammed the door shut which cracked the glass, puffed furiously on my cigar until my head was swimming in a cloud of smoke and my eyes had to squint.  The booth was now full of tobacco smoke and I’m sure I couldn’t be seen from the outside ~ too much smoke.  As soon as I was squinting salty blood red and nothing else, I figured that was enough to make me tough ~ and stepped out.  I threw the cigar butt at a gas station attendant who kept looking at me ~ and I lit another one.

     At the same gas station I walked into the rest room ~ women’s by mistake ~ found a man inside powdering his cheeks.

     “Hi, handsome,” he said.

     I coughed short and low, trudged into the men’s instead.  It was empty.

     In the mirror I looked.  I saw a pink elephant with two horns sticking out of his head.  No, not really.  What I saw was a road scholar glaring back through the little red slits of his eyes.  His not shaved for a week face was a bit ingrained with road dust ~ and so were his clothes ~ a long sleeved work shirt of gray, jeans of black, clonky boots, and a sweat stained gray cap low over his eyes.  From beneath the cap fell stringy dark hair, well over his shirt collar.  The front of the shirt and the toes of the boots were complimented by his own drying puke.  A rolled up rug full of ironically clean laundry hung over his shoulder.  He was puffing on a small crooked cigar.  He was hungry and horny, haunted by queers and ignored by women.  The smell of him was touching.  His legs and back ached road.  He needed rest ~ had no bed but for the nearest concealing bush swamped by traffic noise.  His name was Clyde Rode ~ or Clyde Was Rode ~ or Clyde Rode The Road.

     And that’s me.

     In the sink I washed my hands ~ dried them with a paper towel.

     Then ~

     My fist exploded the mirror to pieces ~ and an old knuckle scar began to bleed.  My boot broke the door open ~ and I bravely walked out, the last of the American cowboys, a dying legend afoot, lookin’ for a saloon girl.

~ continued below ~


     I managed to find a saloon called Momma’s Topless Go Go Bar, which I immediately distrusted, and walked in and bought a beer.  There was a dancer on the platform behind the bar, bouncing shoulders and buns into all four corners of the world, to a racey boom boom go go tune.  I immediately began to fall in love.  But I didn’t finish my beer or my love.  When she took off her bikini top, she took off her wig too, had no tits, and was a man.  Casually, I got up and sauntered out of Momma’s Topless Go Go Bar.

     Limping Rooster was populated by nothing less than queer men and unfathomable women!  The policemen, truck drivers, liquor store clerks, grocery store box boys, all walked and talked kind of silly and licked their lips whenever they looked at each other ~ or at me.  The women all walked around with a gone look in their eyes and wouldn’t talk to anyone.  As for the children, God only knows what they were going to be when they grew up.  The little boys possessed the phobia of blowing “girl kooties” off themselves whenever little girls touched them.

     Other than this it was just a “normal” town.  And by golly, if you want to be a homo, be a homo!  I don’t mind.  As a matter of fact, you queer fellers often strike me as being compassionately above things ~ aren’t always full of hot air when you talk ~ like a lot of John Waynes I know.  Shucks, I kind of began to groove on the place.  There’s a little in all of us.  If there isn’t a little, there’s a lot.  Limping Rooster was okay, a feather in this land’s hat, a good book on its shelf, a fine whiskey hidden in its cellar.  It was okay, and is okay ~ that is until you expect me to make love with you!

     Before I knew it I was running fast as my feet could foot it ~ toes reaching for the air in front of my nose ~ that’s the way to run ~ and I ran!  All these strange fellers chased me as the women stepped aside.  Road Homo screeched to a halt in his warship limousine with ear rings, blocked my path of escape.  I climbed over his car, almost flew off its other side as he was opening the door ~ and run a run run I ran!  Laundromat Homo drove up along side the right of me in his station wagon of clean white towel (packed in the back) splendor.  I made a quick left between two buildings.  The others were on my heels ~ and the pack of hungry homosexuals grew bigger as I grew weaker!  Clean laundry fell out the end of my rug as I hurdled like a horse a little picket fence, scrambled like a cat over a tall wire fence.  Gardens I trampled.  Once I think I skimmed over the surface of a swimming pool ~ dropped my rug in it.  But I couldn’t continue this pace forever!

     Finally I had no place to go but up the hill in the middle of Limping Rooster.  It had no roads.  I leaped over boulders and leaped across gullies and tore through bushes.  The mob of drooling man hungry men did not pursue me up the side of the hill.  Instead they accumulated at its base and some of them hurled rocks and empty wine bottles at me.  Amongst these catapulting maniacs I glimpsed the bum I’d seen taking off his shirt in the laundromat.  For a split second I wondered who helped those women make kids to chase around wash machines in this city.  It’s a mystery to this day.

     I scratched my fingernails up the face of a massive boulder while flying rocks chipped and wine bottles shattered all around me.  I crawled over the summit of this boulder, fell through a huge bush full of skin pricking branches on the big rock’s higher side ~ and hit with an “umph” the ground.  My breath came in gasps.  My heart pumped fire into my head.  Eyes blinking, nostrils flaring, I choked on my tongue and almost died when I saw the dried up corpse of a man draped in the branches of the same bush into which I had fallen.  His decayed wallet lay open at his feet.  The yellowed ID gave my eyes a quick jab with the name, Jack Kerouac.  He had made it half way up the hill in the middle of Limping Rooster.  I lay half dead at his dead feet.  This was getting rediculous.  I thought he was buried in Massachusetts.

     Laboriously, slowly, I crawled out from beneath this murdering plant, stumbled to my feet ~ but it did no good ~ because then I fell to my knees.  I leaned over on my hands, lowered my head.  My tongue dangled like a dog’s.  The cap on my head fell off and I stared uncomprehendingly at it.  It looked like an empty dog food dish.

     “Bow wow,” I whispered in an attempt to humor myself ~ and cried.

     It isn’t hard when no one is watching.  It’s just as easily done as said.  I could’ve cried until I was dead.  It was at this moment that I took a break ~ in order to lose some faith in a few beliefs ~ such as my strength to seek rhymes and make them real ~ oh weaknesses, hello!  A wine bottle hurled by the hand of a Limping Rooster queer landed on my head ~ a bull’s eye ~ shattered and knocked me to my senses.

     I got onto my feet, stumbled up the hill in a slow agonizing way ~ occasionally had to climb rather than walk ~ didn’t even know why I was trying to reach its summit.  Once I did though, I was glad.  In the shadow of a giant rock on top of this hill I saw in front of the setting sun, a little colorfully painted house with a lit up neon sign above its door that said, “MASSAGE PARLOR”.

     The setting sun was golden pretty.

     In the window of the door was a smaller, simpler sign that read, “OPEN”.  An ounce of hope fought its way out of my heart and peered with me at this little house.  The hope grew into a giant of strength at my shoulder, slapped me on the back of my head with its big hope hand and I walked through the door.

     The light was low ~ but it didn’t take long to see a girl slouched lazy and bored in a stuffed chair.  She was reading The Happy Hooker, a paperback book written by a happy hooker.

     She looked up at me.  A twinkle of promise avalanched out of her eyes like the Milky Way.

     I stood silent, looking at her.  She sat silent, looking at me.  She was not a movie star.  She was more like Calamity Jane.  But her skin was smooth and her eyes promised not earth shaking love, not even mild romance, but possessed a great flowing twinkle of starvation.

     “Want a massage?” she said.

     I said nothing.

     A long moment of silence played with our hearts.  Vibrations grew.  Defenses wavered.  The girl tossed the book onto a table ~ pretended not to know what her movement did to my desires.  I grinned just a little ~ just a little embarrassed.

     “Forty dollars,” she coolly announced.  “And I’ll be your baby tonight.”

     I handed her my wallet.

     She dug into it until she found all my money ~ all four dollars.  Sadly she shrugged, looked up at me with a double scoop of compassion and like only a saloon girl can say it, said, “C’mon, cowboy.”  She lifted her sweet hunk of womanly flesh off the chair, took me by the hand.

     “Thank you,” I murmured stupidly.

     She said nothing, but kept a firm hold on my hand.  I liked her shoulders.  I liked her walk.  I liked her.  The smell of her perfume.  A saloon girl!

     “What’s your name?” I asked.

~ continued below ~



     “My name’s Clyde.”

     “Hi, Clyde,” she said, not overtly excited.



     “You’re beautiful,” I said ~ stupid again.

     She said nothing ~ just rolled her eyeballs.  Silence was thick and so was the aroma as she peeled off my dirty banana peels and stuck me in a bathtub.

     “Do you realize what I can buy with four dollars?” she said with a wet washrag in her hand.


     “Not much.”  She leaned over me with the washrag, went to work on my road weary body which was now drowning in bliss.  And my fondness for Molly drowned in bliss also as one of her breasts beneath a fine robe brushed my cheek.  “You’re dirty as a ~ “

     “I know,” I interrupted.

     “Where’re you from?” she asked.

     “Who cares,” I said.

     “That’s right.  Who cares?  Not me.”  She wrapped the soapy washrag around around my neck and playfully, I believe, commenced in choking me.

     “San Diego, California!” I said with a gasp.


     “Where you from?”

     “Dallas, Texas.”

     Obviously we were both refugees stuck in Limping Rooster seeking new homes some where.  Sweet silence peacefully reigned as she finished the wash job, dried me off, gave me a crummy purple robe.  “My favorite color,” I muttered.

     “Mine too,” she whispered.  And she kissed me.

     When we fell onto a handy little bed I kept attempting to do my duty for Molly and me but little henry kept getting soft.  Molly gave me a massage.  I went to sleep in bed with a woman.  In the middle of the night I awoke.  Molly was awake.  I gave her a massage.  She went to sleep in bed with me.  I rolled into her limp arms.  The wilted flowers in the garden of my dreams, with a kiss here and a kiss there, rebloomed.  In the morning they bore fruit.  Molly and I pressed our tummies together in loving grace as little henry went mucho hombre el macho gringo!

     “Tell me, Molly.  Have you ever really loved somebody?”

     “I’m loving you.”

     “I mean really loved somebody.”


     “What happened?”

     “He disappeared.”

     “Well,” said I.  “You can bet anything he didn’t want to, had to, and when he came back, couldn’t find you.”



     “I never even got a chance to touch him,” she sniffed.

     “I never got to touch my love either,” I sniffed too.  “And she was just as beautiful as you.”

     “Everybody’s beautiful,” said Molly.  “If they wanna be.”

     “Yes,” said I.  “Even homos.”

     Molly laughed and so did I ~ as glory burst forth with the rising sun, shouted with triumph across the universe, kissed whoever is out there on the cheek ~ breasts ~ thighs ~ toes ~ ripped through the gates of heaven, grabbed a piece, and slept on a bus all the way back to earth.

     It’s six months later now.  I sit alone in a gas station in the early dawn, sixty miles outside of San Diego on Highway 8 ~ hear the birds singing good morning in the hills.  The ex-sheriff from Montana, for whom I work the graveyard shift, has a ragged American flag hanging half-ass outside day and night.  It’s kind of weird, because I dodged the Vietnam War and I’m glad I did.  But every once in a while I glance at that flag ~ very holy to my “boss” ~ and like now, think about Molly in Limping Rooster, Texas.  God only knows why I think of Molly as I look at that ragged piece of cloth hanging out there.  Maybe it’s because I’d die, maybe even kill, for Molly any day or night of the year ~ but in Vietnam?

     Anyway, that morning when I left, she said, “Think you’ll make it?”

     “Yes, I’ll make it,” I replied, happy as hello, turned around and stuck a cigar in my mouth for a good smoke down the hill ~ and onward.


Text Copyright Clyde Collins 1989

except one
from the movie

Actual Reincarnation of Davy Crockett


by Cloyd Campfire


Part One: 
A Rudest Of Awakenings
     The souls of the freshly killed swirled above the smoky Alamo in the vintage year of 1836.
     Among these swirling souls, the more spiritually ambitious, in no time at all, streaked like fiery comets thru the tunnel of God’s love, into yonder sea of light ~ that mysterious sea ‘tween our Earth-bound lives.
     Whoa! Please, kind reader, don’t think I mean to attack your imagination with unearthly scrawl that hopes to bloom above the more familiar blood and dust of ye olde Alamo. It’s just that, well, that’s where your imagination’s gotta go if you are going to really read this heart-squeezing patriotic drama that begins in yonder BARDO.
     But first, some of those dizzy souls in the smoke above Texas that sizzling day wouldn’t leave. Shocked & furious, they lingered, futilely wishing to avenge their own deaths.
     Still others, more amiable in disposition but with little if any spiritual ambition, immediately went to sleep & dreamed ~ as they more complacently floated up a rock-a-bye-baby river, so to speak, that emptied into the warm, glowing, euphoric sea that encompasses our islands of incarnate life ~ yonder mysterious BARDO!
     “David? David Crockett? Awake, eternal frontiersman, awake!”
     Upon sleeping over 100 years, the dream-creamed soul of one who had died at ye olde bullet poke-marked basilica, was thusly nudged by the smooth & divine voice of Angelic Lulu.
     “Not yet,” moaned the King of the Wild Frontier. “Let me sleep. Please. Please. Let me sleep.”
     “Awake!” persisted the demure damsel with wings aflutter ~ and she touched ye sleeping hero’s brow with a dab of purple tintillated lightning.
     Davy Crockett rocketed to attention, saluted Angelic Lulu & gritted, “Cruel. Cruel.”
     “I’m sorry, David. We have received for you a mission from God. We must move quickly. Come!”
     In the blink of a black hole & the flash of 1,000 stars, so to speak, they wisped across the BARDO of our other more tranquil side of life, and life, and more life, the euphoric discarnate side where we rest, recuperate, and are judged between lives. And that’s where the duo was now ~ The Judgment Place ~ which resembled a cathedral made of shining galaxies & misty clouds.
     “Wait here, David, I must go find Bishop Tumor & Polynesian Phil.”
     “No! Not them again! C’mon, Lulu! Where’s Jesus? I never see Jesus!”
     “In due time,” coyly curved Angelic Lulu. “In due time, David. You’re not spiritually evolved enough yet, to see Master Jesus.”
     And poof! She was gone.
     A timeless moment later, Crockett observed 3 pecks of light floating way endlessly out yonder, in ye expansive fathomless space ‘tween little islands of incarnate breathing, that space of no space & no time, called ~ EL BARDO!!!
     Closer & closer, bigger & more life like, grew the 3 forms ’til Davy, with a forlorn sigh, recognized that his judges had arrived: the old dumpy dwarf Bishop Tumor, the goo-goo eyed block-head Polynesian Phil, and the irresistible Lulu. Thank God for Angelic Lulu!
     After a few informal “Howdy do’s,” they commenced The Judgment. Let us be brief. Lulu was impressed with Crockett’s love of family. Phil liked the way the frontiersman led about 100 volunteers in a tense & highly justified desertion of General Andrew Jackson & his regulars during a winter lull in the Creek Indian War. And Bishop Tumor, generally speaking, thought Crockett should go straight to hell.
     “Well, it doesn’t matter one way or another,” admonished Lulu with one eye-brow demurely raised. “Because David is going on a Mission from God.”
     Phil click-clacked his wooden tongue excitedly. The bishop boisterously guffawed but said nothing. Then, out of El Bardo no-where, Moses appeared.
     “Moses?” gaped Crockett in a small voice.
     Ye olde patriarch’s eyes were fierce like an eagle’s. And he rumbled like a bear, “David Crockett, ye are beseeched by God to reinstitute the 10 Commandments in the United States of America ~ so that a new generation knows right from wrong. Are you willing?”
     Crockett stammered & turned to Lulu with a beggar’s lack of coin a-drip in his eye. Lulu threw back a haughty look that let him know she had no spare change for him, so to speak, and crossed her arms over her breasts.
     “C’mon, Lulu, help me out here,” begged Crockett.
     The divine damsel slightly smiled. “It IS a mission from God, David.”
     “Yeah, but, but,” whined Crockett. He fell to his knees. “I don’t wanna go back to Planet Earth! I wanna go back to sleeeeeeep!”
     He tearfully kissed Lulu’s knee.
     “Davy!” She blushed.
     Then the desperate American Folk Hero sprang to his feet and took off running.
     Moses & Angelic Lulu watched him futilely seek oblivion in el depthless BARDO. The 2 divinities looked with dismay at each other. They slowly shook their heads.
     “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He used to be so brave,” sighed Lulu.
     “He just has a case of Jonah-itis,” mused Moses. “He’ll be okay. I’ll sic the Earth Demon on him.” And ye olde patriarch raised his miracle staff.
     In response, a beam of brightness ricocheted thru a stained-glass galaxy of The Judgment Place, and transformationed into said demon ~ a rollicking creature actually, full of menace & mischief & resembling a dragon of medieval yore. Plus, the critter was very large. And swift. The Earth Demon took off after Crockett like a locomotive.
     Polynesian Phil & Bishop Tumor, who were still hanging around, clapped with glee, although Phil’s clapping was a bit spastic, since he was made out of wood. Angelic Lulu more gently placed her hands together ~ and prayed for poor Crockett as he ran like a rabbit, like a deer, like a shock-stricken squirrel thru the brush & the gullies that weren’t really there.
     When the demon was close enough, it hurled Planet Earth, which it had been clutching in its claw, at the back of Crockett’s head.
     And the planet ~ with all its dirt & rock & trees & critters & cities & peoples & rivers of joy & valleys of sorrow & plains of justice & mountains of liberty ~ this planet spun thru the Bardo toward its target, the back of Davy’s head as he rapidly fled.
     Then, and then, an awesome splash of light was all that was left of the panicked frontiersman & our spinning football, Earth.     An instant later ~ nothing, nothing but the fabulous BARDO ~ was all around.


 Part Two:
Thy Kingdom Come
     Davy Crockett, reincarnated & 52 now, baby, now ~ pulled the makings outta his shirt pocket & rolled himself a cigarette. He leaned against a porch beam of Veterans Campus. Ye olde historical root lit-up & inhaled gratefully. T’was a crispy Sunday morning in the early spring of 2003.
     He was trapped now, baby, now, by Lady Poverty in this live-in facility that assisted homeless military veterans in their heroic transition into a formidable workforce. Crockett still didn’t have a real job. He’d been slacking here for nearly 2 years. But it wasn’t HIS fault. He slowly exhaled before his raggedy face a meandering smoke sculpture ~ of an angel ~ with a halo around her head & with a trumpet pressed in a most immaculate fashion to her lips. “How amazing,” whispered the eternal frontiersman under his breath to whatever invisible entities might be hanging around. “How’d I do that?”
     Now, baby, now, across the asphalt parking-lot plaza, the head honcho of this Transitional Zone stepped out of his office & gazed up at the clear blue sky as if having spied something strange floating around up there. Then he shrugged & got into his truck & drove out the gate, which was attended by homeless military-veteran fire-guards wearing neck-ties.
     The brief appearance of this gentleman got Crockett to thinking about his failed campaign for mayor of the Queen City of the Rio Grande & how close he had come to winning the election & how it had been foiled by this, uh, gentleman who’d just driven out the gate, this crusty old javilina who was none other than Andrew Jackson, God have mercy, reincarnated! The eternal frontiersman had already had, in his previous life-time, enough of this crusty critter as an unreasonable hot-headed general & a cheatin’ lyin’ political opponent.
     The shadow of what Crockett took to be a jet or a crow or plain irritation, crossed his brow, as he remembered more recent events…
     Sure, the campaign had been somewhat of a rickety old jalopy, so to speak, but it had got to rollin’, and although Crockett was a penniless stranger to the city, he knew he could have won the election (yes, sir!), that is, if Andrew Jackson Reincarnated hadn’t thrown this politically ambitious program of Crockett’s out the window and, with lies & deceit, fandango-ed him instead into fire watch, 12 hours a night, 5 nights a week, at the RS&VP office.
     How could Crockett run an adequately cranked-up campaign for the best job in the city when he then had to stumble around everyday ~ a graveyard-shift zombie?
     The eternal frontiersman foamigated into a seizure of coughing. He staggered over to a trash can, spat into it several times, returned to his supportive porch beam, against which he leaned once more. He inhaled more tobbacky smoke into his trembling lungs, not so gratefully this time.
     And what the albushmurkee was that floating above Crockett’s head? It looked like a weathered wooden ammo box ~ descending from Heaven ~ perhaps carried by a couple of invisible cherubs ~ and finally placed at Crockett’s feet! A breeze carelessly caressed his cheek. And ye olde settler felt so mysteriously meek. What, in the name of Saint Pete, was going on here?
     “Looks like you got Special Delivery, Davy,” announced Frank & Joe Hardy, a resident of Veterans Campus who had 2 first names. He happened to have been strolling by in his church clothes when the box landed. Now he stood along side Crockett peering dubiously down at it. On the top of the box, which was oblong, these words were written:
To: Davy Crockett Reincarnated
From: Angelic Lulu
     “Yeeeap, that’s definitely Special Delivery,” said Hardy.
     Crockett had nothing to say ~ which you might call “speechless.”
     “Well, you going to open it? It’s addressed to YOU,” said Hardy.
     Crockett squatted, undid the simple latch & lifted the lid, which had squeaky hinges. He stood back.
     Inside were two stone tablets with writing on them.
     Crockett gulped. Strange memories began stirring the biscuit mix in his brain, but he wasn’t quite sure what was frying.
     “I am the Lord your God. You shall not have strange gods before me,” read out-loud another resident who went by the name of Gon Weeners & who had approached out of curiosity & had been standing there for some time.
     “My God,” said Hardy. “That’s the 10 Commandments! You just received the 10 Commandments from Heaven, Davy!”
     Crockett scratched his head and had a sudden urge to run away but didn’t. “Destiny,” he mumbled.
     “Wha?” chorused Hardy & Weeners & about 7 or 8 more residents in their church clothes & rags, who had curiously gathered around.
     Crockett looked up & beheld that he was surrounded by homeless dry-drunk & abstaining crack-head military veterans who were all never-do-wells & of absolutely no account.
     “It’s my destiny,” explained Crockett in a voice many many miles away. He blinked. “Why should you fellers care? Why don’t you all leave me alone?”
     “Yeah, but, but you just received the 10 Commandments from Heaven!” said Frank & Joe Hardy, who, you may remember, had two first names.
     “It’s a miracle!” added Gon Weeners.
     There were roughly 30 residents of Veterans Campus gathered around now. That’s about half the people who lived in the place, which, incidently, was a spread-out 100-room ex-motel that had been partially refurbished by other homeless veterans who had come & gone.
     Anyway, the residents began voicing their opinions resonately, until finally one of them, Michael Jackson, a buff unemployed boxer from Boston, said, “Whahhh don’t yuh jus’ go to a skoo somewheh & hang ‘dem ‘dings in duh fwont of a classwoom n’ be done wit’ ’em, Davy?”
     “Wha?” said Crockett.
     Jackson repeated himself, more or less, and did so about 3 or 4 times.
     “That’s a good idea,” said Crockett. He tossed his cigarette butt into a nearby tin can & lifted the two tablets, which were made of Sinai stone, out of the box. “Here,” he thrust the stone tablets at Jackson. “You do it.”
     “Davy, hold on!” spoke-up Hardy. He extended one hand in a pleading manner. “They were delivered to you, so YOU should do it.”
     “Yeah, damn democrat,” said Weeners, who was republican ~ a damn republican.
     Now there were about 50 curious residents gathered around here. And they all started voicing their opinions louder & louder. And they all had the same opinion, that is, that Davy should hang-up the 10 Commandments in a Wilson Middle School classroom, which could be found nearby on San Pedro Avenue.
     “And we’ll all go with you to make sure you do it right,” declared James Praitoree a French immigrant from Texas. His sidekick, an artist also from Texas, Wil Gauguin, slapped Crockett on the back & hollered, “Let’s go, patriots!”
     All the suddenly God-fearing homeless veterans pushed out the gate before them the dubious Davy Crockett, who verily verily reluctantly cradled in his arms the Laws of Almighty Jehovah ~ and without signing out ~ alleluia alleluia!
     Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna (Remember the Alamo? Remember who led the Mexican army that killed all the defenders of the Alamo?), reincarnated and 2nd in command at Veterans Campus, came running out of his office hollering, “Hey! Banditos! None of you signed out! You’re all getting extra doo-teeeeeee!!!”
     Santa Anna’s words bounced off the neo-empty walls & faded away ~ so much mulch in the wind.
     Carmelita Granada, 1 of 2 worried women staying at the campus, caught up to Crockett at the head of the marching column, down the sidewalk a ways. She handed him a coonskin cap & long-barreled flint-lock musket. She said, “These also were in the box from Heaven. But nobody noticed.”
     “Thank you, Carmelita,” stonily said Crockett as he shuffled along. He handed the 10 Commandments to somebody else & donned the cap & hoisted the musket.
     “This too.” The little Latina pulled from around her neck a dangling powder-horn & gave it to him.
     “And this.” She poured several small lead balls into the palm of Crockett’s hand.
     “Here’s some more,” she almost whispered as she poured some more into his other palm.
    “Thank you, Carmelita.”
     “Good luck, Davy.” She then took off back to the compound. All the marching men noted that Carmelita seemed pretty plump these days, which was kind of strange for a woman who claimed to be of the 3rd persuasion. Never-the-less, she was a cute little stinker, they also noted, as waving “adios” she flurried by.
     The ringed tail of the coonskin cap on Crockett’s head swayed back n’ forth in such away now, baby, now, that all the homeless veterans marching behind this crown of the column, couldn’t help but burst out in jubilant song. And as the swinging raccoon tail kept the beat, this is what they sang:
“Off down the street
he’s sneakin’ along ~
Gettin’ all embarrassed
as we sing this song ~
He’s gonna show em’ what’s right
so they won’t do wrong ~
An’ he’s startin’ to shine
as we spirit him along ~
Davy Crockett ~
King of the wild frontier!”
     San Pedro Avenue led them to the back of Wilson Middle School, where they brutally broke down the fence, continued marching & singing across the athletic field, then ferociously smashed in the door to a classroom bungalow. It was, indeed, an ethereal Sunday morning.
     Then, after they solved a few complications, and then, after too much ballyhoo, and THENNNNNNN, Crockett hung-up the 10 Commandments in the front of the classroom.
    “There!” said he.
     They all hurrahed and forgot to pray.
     On their way out of the bungalow, a young police officer, standing tall & square in their path, pulled his revolver and… Davy Crockett realized he hadn’t loaded his musket yet… and the perfect knee of Angelic Lulu suddenly, explosively, was illuminated in his memory… as the cop shot him in the forehead ~ a bull’s eye.
    “You’re all under arrest!” baritoned the cop.
     Fifty homeless veterans stood still ~ still and silent as death.
     The mass media of the United States, AND OF THE ENTIRE WORLD, grabbed the ball and ran with the story. A subsequent tumult of debate led to legislative change in Washington D.C. It became legal to hang the 10 Commandments in the front of every classroom in the public schools of America ~ as long as the Bill Of Rights was hanging next to them. After that, with these two origins of law glaring back at them, the young men & women in the classrooms of the #1 super-power bully nation of the planet, knew exactly what their rights were, & what was right, & WHAT WAS WRONG.
     Meanwhile, women of all ages all over the country became infactuated with homeless veterans, because of the handsome way the residents of Veterans Campus had helped Crockett fulfill his destiny ~ as reported in the media.
     But before all that happened, there was Davy Crockett Reincarnated’s funeral. They held it in the little park that James Praitoree & Wil Gauguin had just built & planted in the middle of the asphalt parking-lot plaza of Veterans Campus.
     In the middle of Crockett’s funeral, a helicopter piloted by Russ Hyder, an ex-resident of the campus, landed next to the park. And out stepped U.S. President George W. Bush, on a break from his avengement of September 11th, 2001.
     The President’s eulogy to The Beloved American Folk Hero Who Saved The United States From Hell, was quite touching. And when the President hung the Medal of Honor on the coffin, more than a few veterans cried.
     Especially Andrew Jackson Reincarnated. He fell apart. He howled with grief & sank to his knees & wrung his hands.
     “I should have never stopped him from becoming mayor!” stormfully, sorrowfully, sobbed Jackson. “My God! I was so cruel to this man who was born & born again an American folk hero! Please, oh God! Please please forgive me for my lying, my jealousy, my two-faced back-stabbing bull-shit!”
     “Here, here, Andrew,” murmured Santa Anna Reincarnated, who was standing next to the kneeling Andrew Jackson who was also Reincarnated. Santa Anna leaned over & quietly said in the old man’s ear, “You’re a good hombre. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Angeles del cielo!”
     Santa Anna tried to lift Jackson to his feet but Jackson would have none of it. The old codger flailed his arms in the air and, still on his knees, desperately reached for Crockett’s coffin, which was too far away for him to touch, and on top of which, incidently, royally sat the regalia of Crockett ~ his cap & his musket (somebody had unscrupulously stolen the powder-horn). With steaming melting glaciers of guilt gushing down his reddened cheeks, Jackson blubbered, “So much more apt would it have been if You, oh God, had taken I, this piss-ant fricking pig, rather than have killed America’s favorite living breathing folk hero ~ Davy, Davy Crockett!”
     The old man collapsed to the ground, shaking spastically.
     Santa Anna knelt down on one knee beside him, patted him on the head.
     “Andrew! Andrew!” T’was Carmelita Granada calling as she ran from her room, carrying a bundle in her arms, heading for the prostrate old man. Weeners was right behind her. Remember Gon Weeners, the republican?
     Carmelita knelt on both knees next to the distraught, disheveled, disgusting Andrew Jackson, who was lying face-down on the ground, eating tender blades of grass.
     “Look! Look! Andrew!” Carmelita partially lifted a blanket from her little bundle, trying to show the beleaguered Jackson what was inside. He finally lifted his head, and thru red red eyes he saw.
     T’was a baby boy ~ fresh out of the holy womb!
     Gon Weeners stood tall behind the kneeling Carmelita. Apparently he was the father. He turned to the crowd. “We’ve been married for sometime,” he confessed, afire with pride.
     “This is quite a funeral,” said President Bush to a brand new acquaintance. “I’m very very touched, Frank & Joe.”
     “It is truly an event to remember, isn’t it, Mr. President?” beamed Frank & Joe Hardy.
     Andrew Jackson, with green drool trickling out the corner of his mouth (due to eating the grass), smiled at the baby. The old general & president from the Antebellum Days of America then turned to the baby’s mother. “I thought you were a lesbian, Carmelita,” said he.
     “Shut-up!” said Carmelita. “And wipe your mouth!”
    The baby was damp & bald & pink. His eyes were tightly shut. And drool was trickling out the corner of his mouth too, but it wasn’t green. It was more of a ~ well, nevermine what color it be.
     Andrew Jackson, still lying on the ground, but on his elbows now, like he was at a picnic instead of a funeral, fawned over Carmelita’s baby. Jackson expansively grinned & chortled, “So tiny!”
     Then the little papoose opened his eyes. They were depthless ~ full of flashing stars & planets & winking blinking black-holes ~ and angels singing scripture & other assorted divinities humming in harmony. Aye, like all baby eyes that open for the first time, these eyes were infinitely filled with what many ancients knew & what many of us have forgotten ~ EL BARDO! And these eyes stared right back at Andrew Jackson.
     Then, and then, amazingly, with a tiny voice the infant spoke, “I’m back, Andy. There’s no rest for the wicked, huh?”
     “Wha?” said Jackson, his spine suddenly a-tingle.
     “I’m Davy,” said Carmelita’s infant. “Davy Crockett. Reincarnated again!”



The White House’s Favorite Secret Agent


Submissivania Whapp


     “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…


the-presidents-favorite-secret-agents butler

her butler


     “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.”








Gun 2013










free read

(the whole thing)

Gun 2013


Ms. Whapp’s model courtesy of:

Evelina Galli

Use things.  Love people.  Don’t switch.”


her butler’s model:

the late “western” actor

Rory Calhoun


Yours truly



Hello, Afghanistan!



An excerpt from the very first short novel I wrote when I was 23 years old:


The Duck Of Freedom

     While Frank, the cop, was with his fists n’ boots mutilating his comrade in arms ~

     A white duck, lost, and in love with being lost, and loving freedom too, without a back pack but with a quack quack was waddling along the highway side.  The duck’s beady eyes, which were stinging the scenery every which way, caught sight of the steel chain around Tulip’s ankle.  He kind of grunted, like some ducks do, waddled up and quacked the chain into little pieces.

     After he did this, Tulip rubbed her raw but now gratefully free ankle with her hand, and very pleased, told him, “Thank you, Mr. Duck.”

     The duck ducked his head as if dodging this acknowledgment by Tulip and in his best English replied, “I’m a goose.”

     But he was really a duck ~ and waddled away, quacking.

     This happening created a supplementary addition to Tulip’s beliefs.  She now believed in miracles.

     “Quack!  Quack!” she cried joyously to the retreating white speck out yonder as it disappeared around the highway bend…


Road’s Cannon

a story about freedom


free read