Three years ago, I was 69. Was stopped searched roughed up and had guns pointed at me by cops. This as I was foolishly walking while Black. The first time was when I was 8. ...tho' no guns that time. Bookends of a life. I no longer mind being killed that much. I just resent it being done for so little. There's just no Opera in it.

"...ways"

A dream. My brother in the Vietnam war. I felt shame I didn't serve. I was young still in school. However, everyone I had grown up with did. They were conscripted. They fought they suffered they came back with wounds seen, and unseen. As my mother said: "They took my son and sent back a stranger."

They told me all in their way that I was well out of it. If they could they'd have stayed home too. My sense of betrayal remained. Not country but to them.

Till that dream.

I was with my brother. We were in the war. Just he, and I out in the open. My brother John was calmly explaining how to stay alive. How to tell if gun fire was coming towards you or moving away. I had wanted to be with John to help him get back alive. However, here he was tutoring 'me' to do the same.

I loved him.

He pointed out trip wires ...mines. Some hidden in trees just above head level. He said as to how they "...really hated them fuckers." Mortars coming down. Their screams visceral. John said that so long as you can hear them you're okay. If not you either die or you don't. On que the screaming stopped. John said, "...this is how we die."

There was no explosion no death.

The dream morphed as they do to other places other times.

I had shared my brother's war. Now I knew some small piece of it. We went our ways.

  “...A Dream”

“Life is But a Dream”

Once upon a time.

A dream it was all a great strange dream.

Long ago I imagined that all my life was a dream.

A dream I was having as a child. Even my posting right now on a

sunny day in the 21st century is part of the dream.

I’ll awake. I’m in a bunkbed.

My brother John asleep below me.

It’s winter I can see snow in the back yard. I’m seven.

It’s January 1958. I dreamed in fine detail a whole history.

I hear our dog “Brownie” padding about below.

My dad getting ready to go to work.

School, I have to go to school.

I have the experiences, memories of a lifetime.

I hold near 70 future years in my heart. How to tell should I tell?

This is happened and last night I dreamed it again. Years ago, I cared for a beloved elder relative. Spiraling dementia. Heart breaking. Some in that state have the energy of toddlers they’re fast chaotic.

We were surprised that in her condition she had little need of sleep. I took shifts with my sister caring protecting watching. Till we finally got two live-in nurses. ‘Two’ and they were needed. Medicare gives that thank da G-ddess.

One nurse confided… “I’m sorry it took so long to get us, …near two years. She went on…"they’re slow because they hope the client will expire before they have to send us, it cuts costs.”

That summed it up. We’re in a madhouse run by a madman.

 "...ride"

Besides the caregiving for an elder dream. There was this.

I was burning the last of my possessions. The things that like barnacles have stuck to me. They burned. My books manuscripts burned. They curled turned to ash blew away.

These, and the trinkets I've carried through my life. They twisted bubbled melted. Became black smoke and vanished in the bright coals.

My parents were there. Well, their shadows were. 

Why, I don't know. They didn't speak they never do.

I fed the fire. Cleansed myself of my worldly parts. It was time. Shoved my hand into the fire. ...don't ask. It was cold. Burning ice. Dante wrote that hell is a cold place. The greater the sins the lower, and colder you go. Is this where my stuff went?  

Being mortal we're not so lucky. Me you, and all mortals. We vanish. Virus's great oaks lady bugs all of us go back to where we came from. Oblivion. The background aura of eternity...or at least that's how it looks. 

On the other hand there's them shadows of folks passed on. Every family has a story every person has an experience. No idea how that works. Hell of a ride.

Either way when you do good it's for its own sake. It 'is' its own reward like fortune cookies tell us. You none of us has an account in paradise where our good deeds accrue interest. We're spiritual paupers. I think we're supposed to be. So just be kind, and generous as best you can. Not for reward, but because we should.

 "Ophelia"

This is how I want to go.

Drunk stoned all dolled up.

In a pretty outfit with flowers.

That, and just floating away.

"...DOA"

Be an artist and see the world!

The Department Of Arts is recruiting likely souls.

Dream weird dreams and write them down.

Paint your nightmares film your fantasies.

Publish your visions. We guarantee no one will care.

A world of drugs weird sex 

and Chinese take-out can be yours.

Just ask Rimbaud.

Go to your nearest "DOA" recruiting office!

Sign up for a lifetime hitch.

You be glad ya did!

(Offer void in Texas and Goat Island Mississippi.)

 

  "Samhain"

On da upside that Wiccan festival is coming.

Back in da day I was into that. A historic note.

It was the Gay Witches group 

that surrounded and protected 

the Dionysian contingent.

 This to the 1979 first Gay March on Washington.

I covered it for a certain radio network.

Seems the upstanding Homophiles who were marching for their humanity wanted to lynch them.

Some Queers were clearly more equal than others.

Eventually the Witches became pragmatic. 

They kicked the Dionysian's under the bus too.

But in that time that moment they were our only friends.

They may well have saved lives.

We now have no friends.

None whatever.

May not for generations if ever.

The Faeries on the other hand are still here.

Being of a higher reality

they never abandoned us and never will.

 "Signal to Noise"

The Poor Agenda

The Woman's Agenda

The Black Agenda

The Queer Agenda

The Immigrant Agenda

*

STOP KILLING US

STOP BEATING US

STOP TORMENTING US