Dry Hurtful Eyes

dry hurtful eryes

(A Stream Of Consciousness narrative)

These tired dormant eyes
Dry and hurtful
Need to apologize
Because these sorry eyes
Water in anticipation
Of her livid provocation
Agony yet to come
Outweighing the pain present
Leaving me frightened
Anxiety tightened
Like a noose
At the end of my rope
Been such a dope
Still I’m frightened
Fear is heightened
She’s been enlightened
Her anger tightened
Across my heart
I rebuff!
Is I’m sorry enough?
Get us through this stuff
Or is it too late
Too late to imitate
A faking lover at her gate
Can it possibly abate
Ease her irate
Her irate zeal unconcealed
I’ll shiver a liars spiel
No deal!
No I must reveal
What is real
Her sex appeal is at my wheel and she’s driving me to kneel
For having dry hurtful eyes?
Shed a tear
With that certain air of saviore faire
And show I care, say a prayer, make me swear
I’ll clear the air?
That’s all she wants
Show her some compassion
My face all ashen
Ashamed I fell prey to passion
That’s so old fashioned
My libido was flashing
My loins were thrashing
My sense went crashing
So I was thrashing
In the wrong bed
How can I make this up?
What can I do to prove my love to you?
Cut my heart in two
Both halves just for you
I will if you want me to
I’d walk the walk of shame
Accepting all the blame
I’m begging on my hands and knees please let me now reclaim
The love we once knew
My love for you is true
I wish I never strayed
Look at the price I paid
A fate that I deserve
But please let me preserve
I’ll never stray again
Please let me say again
I’m sorry and I love you
And though I’m undeserving of you
Please let me appologize
Free of all disguise
I want you to realize
I have dry hurtful puupy eyes
Please take me back inside
I’ll do whatever it takes
Forgive me

Space Needle (Just Say No)


Stepping outside of the universe
On a candle and a spoon
A notion of other wordly spaces
Knew We’d get there soon

Sitting vacant across the ship
Co-pilot I was flying steady
Holding our space needle in our hands
My friend I’m more than ready

Riding away on an Asian Pegasus
Through a tube marked black in numbers
Both us riding across carefree pathways
Clutching at our magic plungers

Starship Enterprise completed missions
Seeking out new forms of cosmic life
Until the space needle pierced a broken heart
Sliced out like a surgeons knife

Weebles wobble but don’t fall down
that’s what we are like when we are nodding
But with his spaceship still in his arm
The pilots breathing required prodding

At captains helm all alone in panic
Only my heart sounded a beat
My friends has stopped to be gone forever
Head soon to be covered by the sheet

He closed his eyes taking the easy route
Face so devoid of its usual glow
Still I cry over what neither of us ever had
The strength to just say no

In Praise Of The Sunrise


(Inspired by my favorite Beat Poet)
A wrathful thunder shouted across a peaceful eve
Screaming its warning of a lightless abyss ahead
The brilliant sun god archer draws back its bow
Releasing its bright arrows towards the east
Directly into the heart of a rust colored Kimono
The surreptitious shards of amber energy emerged
Attempting to sneak up upon the quiet shore
Only to be left soaked in somber clouds of destiny
The landscape lay buried in ashen solitude
Arcane darkness glowed from the eyes of death
From out of a skull of ancient days passed by
Trees stood by tall in carnal anticipation
Rainbows shivered in the back of the line
The smoke of anguished laughter rose out of sight
And daytime strutted down the red carpet
Absorbing the cheers of its legion of fans
The bright yellow master glowed white on the paths
Thank you for rising to endow us another day

The Birth Of A Hippie Thanksgiving Tradition


If you say Alice’s Restaurant to an old school hippie around Thanksgiving you will most likely elicit a huge smile and happy reflective eyes. Why? Alice’s Restaurant is a Hippie tradition, and just about anywhere you go in the country you can find a radio station playing Alice’s Restaurant Massacree at 12 Noon on Thanksgiving day. It’s a song by Arlo Guthrie based on a true story about a hippie commune celebrating love and life on that day and the hilarity and banality of events after it to an at the time unpopular group of peace loving peoples called hippies. It’s sung by Mr. Guthrie in his trademark style, with a monologue center guaranteed to bring tears of laughter to all true hippies. The tune lasts for 18 and a half minutes and for many of us it goes way deeper than just a tune on a day, it’s a memory of an era. A golden memory. Many others have a tale similar to mine so lets just reflect on my first epiphany on how much this song really means.

As soon as I turned 18 I made good on my threat to move out of my parents house so I wouldn’t have to follow all the ridiculous rules while I was “Under my roof” in the authoritarian gospel according to Dad. So now I’m on my own, my hair is not an issue under my roof, and its okay to indulge in activities that I had to do by an open window while burning incense. But I still had to go to Thanksgiving dinner at home because I didn’t move far enough away, and you just couldn’t say no to Mom. I was at the age where family get togethers were more of a torture once you’re no longer sitting at the kids table. That didn’t mean I had to go there unprepared.

I invited my best friends over for a pre T-day dinner soiree to get us all in the right frame mind to combat the inevitable bevy of put downs. So I told some friends to come on over around 11,we’ll smoke a few bowls and listen to Alice’s Restaurant. That’s how I sold it and the response was overwhelming. Eight of my closest friends stopped by and each had their own version of temperament enhancing herb. So we sat in the living room of my basement apartment, which of course was also my bedroom, rumpus room, den, and dining room. We sat around on milk crates and bean bag cushions passing chamber pipes, chillums, sticks of Thai, and even a well weathered meerschaum pipe. We were all feeling exceptionally good and listened to Alice’s Restaurant on our rock station. As usual it had us all laughing and grooving without any thoughts to what lay ahead with the family function. Each of us had reasons to not want to go to our homes for thanksgiving, most because we would get the litany of when are you gonna cut your hair?, what college are you going to?, why do you dress like that?, you call that music?, anything to put us down in front of the family. Not wanting to make the convergence into fake family fun all of my friends stayed until 2 o’clock and left my humble basement room feeling like we could take anything our families had to give. As each person left we swore to do it again next year, same time.

Thanksgiving dinners became so much more bearable that day and the tradition continued the following year. By year three, two of the group had moved away, I had moved four towns away, and life began to just sort of happen. By year four it was two friends, each of us with our girlfriends, and after five years all of us had gone our separate ways but promised to keep up the tradition wherever we were. This year two of our original group have passed away, two are just missing without staying in touch, one doesn’t speak with me anymore, and of the other three I am still in touch with one, but every year since then I have listened to a radio at noon wherever I was and reflected on my eight friends. These days I no longer reflect on the eight revelers in particular, but all my friends and acquaintances from that era, many whom I have reconnected with on social media. So every year, I celebrate the epoch of the best people that ever lived, my hippie friends from the early chapters of my life. My radio is set, and today the tradition will continue. Peace

Thanksgiving Without Mom


The night before Thanksgiving my phone broke the rhythm of the stereo by ringing out of tune at eight o’clock in the evening. The call was for me which in and of itself was unusual, but even more unusual was it was my Dad calling. Dad now lived alone in the big house we grew up in, my four brother and two sisters all having moved out starting our own families and seldom made the effort to call. Mom had passed away just last January and my Pops was a bit lost and confused. On top of coping without his soul partner and the foundation of our family this was the first thanksgiving for us without Mom. Dad wanted everything to be like a normal holiday gathering of the family so he had invited me and my family, two of my brothers and two sisters and their families over for the big dinner. We all agreed it would be the best thing for him and we all accepted, but his phone call had a somewhat ominous tone about at. “Hey kiddo, I know your coming over for thanksgiving dinner tomorrow but I was wondering if you could come over early and sort of help me get dinner together. Its our first dinner since your Moms gone and to be honest I have no idea how she did it or what to do.” I really should have known this would happen, me being a chef and Dad now on a strict diet of microwaveable dinners and can cuisine. “Of course Pops, how big is the bird?” I needed to know what I was up against, “I got a thirty pounder for everyone, it barely fit in the freezer.” He sounded proud but I was still unsure of what he meant exactly by ’help’. More like ’can you come over and make thanksgiving dinner?’ which was cool, I sure knew my way around a kitchen “Okay pops, you have it in the sink of the fridge?” The silence should have alerted me but back in those days I was slower to catch on due to my indulgence of herbal accoutrements if you catch my drift. “Well, ah, no son, its still in the freezer. Is that a problem?” Problem? Oh no, raw frozen turkey is how everybody does it! This time it was my turn to create an uncomfortable silence while I weighed options. Think hard buddy, what to do? “Okay listen Dad, put the turkey in the sink right now, leave it there overnight and I’ll be over first thing in the morning.” Looks like no “March of The Wooden Soldiers” for me this year.

I got up extra early because I was expecting other disasters to appear not knowing what my father had in store for me. Within minutes of being there I was not disappointed as the first disaster reared its ugly turkey neck. Still ¾ frozen I began running water over the cryo-packed turkey and turned to my father. The look on his face could best be described as a combo of bewilderment and confusion, “Okay, what else do we have for dinner Pops?” Mr. Bewildered looked at me sheepishly and by way of firm reply said, “Well, I have a bag of frozen onions and a box of frozen baked stuffed potatoes……Can you use that?” I thought about saying in my typically sarcastic tone, “Oh perfect old man, the fourteen of us can share two potatoes while we dine on Butterball popsickles” but a wave of sadness fell across me. Here was my old man, a dude who never spent a day behind the stove, a man whose cooking talents are limited to a few things on the grill in summer, this lonely man just wants to have his family over for Thanksgiving like we did when his wife, our Mom, was alive. To top it off, he was depending on me, probably his most undependable child. The veritable black sheep of the family, the one who Mom complained always “Danced to the beat of your own drum” the rebellious name ruining prodigal son was being asked to save the family celebration.

“Say Pops, why don’t you go clean up the living room and dining room or something and I’ll take care of dinner. I’ll call Jake (not the State farm guy, my next oldest brother) and together he and I will create a Thanksgiving dinner Mom would be proud of.” I know he’ll never admit this but he turned away quickly so I wouldn’t see the tear of part pride for his son and part profound sadness from missing his lifer partner. No sooner did he leave the kitchen I opened the window, lit a joint, and called Jake. “Jake, buddy, you gotta come over here quick man, we got to shop and cook the turkey dinner for tonight.” I could tell the silence was a quick option weighing silence combined with a how can I get out of this silence so I sweetened the pot. Literally. “Look dude, I got some primo gold weed here, we’ll puff a few on the way to the store then some more once we start cooking.” Successful arm twisting worked and he was on his way over.

Now I am a trained chef, and I know it goes against common protocol, but I added more hot to the running water, and took the bird out of the wrapper and set it up so the water ran directly into the cavity. Jake honked his horn and I jumped in his car and lit another joint. By the time we got to the grocery store we were laughing like friggen banshees. We tore through the store and filled our cart up with red bliss potatoes, fresh asparagus, corn, carrots, and broccoli, sweet potatoes, stuffing mix, and all the accoutrements needed for a good chef created T day dinner. Also in our cart was a box of ring dings, oreo cookies, devil dogs, and chips and dip, proving once again the theory that one should never shop for food after smoking pot. But, Hell, what’s done is done, so we paid and split.

By the time we got back to Dads, the turkey was close enough to at least remove the gizzards and neck and season the bird. A bunch of veggie trimmings in a roaster and first things first the turkey went in the oven. So we did the most natural thing. We lit another joint and smoked it blowing the smoke out the window. Just like old times when we both lived under their roof blowing it out the window while burning incense as a cover. The next few hours Jake and I had a blast, puffing joints, cooking together, and laughing our asses off. Well not completely off, more like halfway off.

By three in the afternoon Dad finally peeked his head in the kitchen to see where we were. “Should I set the table like Mom used to do, so we can have our Thanksgiving dinner just they way she made it?” I thought for a moment, then replied, “No Dad, the truth is no one will ever be able to make dinner the way Mom did, no one could come close. So how about this, a new tradition. I’m gonna make this a Thanksgiving buffet, put all the food on the dinner table and we can all make our plates and eat in the living room. I could never compete with how much Mom put into dinner.” The tear returned, this time he didn’t hide it but wiped it away, “I love you guys so much, this is gonna be the best Thanksgiving possible.” He left, Jake and I looked at each other and the teardrop must have been infectious because we had each developed one too.

When the time came I set a carving station up for Dad, with turkey, vermouth gravy, and pumpernickel artichoke stuffing, then arranged everything else around the table. Traditional sweet potatoes, red bliss mashed potatoes with four cheese, steamed broccoli and asparagus with hollandaise sauce, caramelized pearl onion, green beans almandine, fresh corn shaved off the cob and tossed in buerre noir, and baby carrots braised in maple syrup. And I’ll tell you this, the Thanksgiving dinners my Mom made were jam packed with love and hard work and each of us always appreciated what she accomplished, ans I couldn’t have done it on my own the way she always had, and it certainly did not have come close to what Mom would have made, but it was one tasty damn meal and there was all the love at the house we all needed.



Full of fruit deep running roots
Sprouting tall through every day
Aviary homes and insect catacombs
Until its ecosystem has gone astray
The giant tree holds the secrets of life
Its arms bearing worldfulls of weight
Roots reaching down to the soul of the earth
Give it foundations heavy with girth
Towering over the dense wood a soldier at arms
Protecting the life of its realm
Sucking from the teat of solar energy
Absorbing to share the essence of sunshine
Huge giver of life enriching its kingdom
Grand majesty standing guard at the frontline

Robin and wren at nest on its branches
Squirrels and coons in arboreal bliss
Feeding off berries and leaves of nutrition
On the lips of the timberlands kiss
Passing life from species to species
Igniting flames of color upon the forest
Vibrantly alive like scenes from a landscape
Beautiful aromas like scenes from florist
Rising above all in feats of strength unequaled

Long legs of majesty standing over its domain
Home and protector of the meek and the quiet
Until no fuel from the fountain of rain remains

Ground once so soft and fertile dries out
Cracking skin the floor of the forest
Begging for just one more chance
One more rain like the ones yesterday held
But today the branches are too brittle
The wrens flew away
The robins sought friendlier skies
No more leaves to drop the carpet
No more arms for the nests nor berry of life
Ivy tentacles of chaos climb unto its heights
Searching the fire of energy burning from above
Strangling across the life rings of a thousand years
Leave the gentle giants moaning soft
Its cries we mistake for the creaking of wood
Old age ravaging the once life filled
Leaving it hollow of life
Everything now void

We are the trees
We breath the life
Contributors of conscious élan
And we too fall hollow when our time comes around
We too feel the ravage of time
Until then stand tall
Be the strength, the life
Live it and love it, be your own Apollo
When the rain ends and the sun sets
Numbers of reflections to follow
We will all become what is inevitable
Every last one of us