Essential Fierce Internal Experience

                                                         Somewhere Along The Erie Canal

When validity and meaning are melded into haughtiness the sensitive conservative waxes ambivalently inspirational while the authoritative liberal turns to the ethically irresponsible with a worldview purely cerebral though locally irrational with an unreasonable ideology that begins to betray the individuals who have encountered thoughts motivational but not altogether logical and seemingly inevitable the impulse becomes appropriately demonstrable for the evolutionary advantageous nonetheless obviously disingenuous and being of suspect credibility with a penchant inappropriately for misadventure and exploration that increasingly defies explanation due to the lack of a destination beyond imagination such that it begs a resistance to this metaphysical existence from a truer consciousness inherently immutable regardless of truths of the beautiful environmental that may have meaning in an abhorrent sea of pronouncements and principals that counter the intuitions of the debatable truculent convictions of the extraordinarily ordinary 

Twenty Minute Crush

                                   She cracked a smile 

                      That looked like Jack Kirby drew it 

                               Her hair was too short

                       It barely showed up in silhouette

                        Sandals of plastic upon her feet

                            The tattoo on her shoulder

                                        Incomplete

                          I knew better than to attempt 

                              A conversational gambit

                                  But still I persisted

                                Damn force of habit

                We talked about cats and artists from France

                   Batman, Bob Hope, & interpretive dance

                              It was just this afternoon 

                          But it already seems long ago

                            Some people you know fast

                           Some people you forget slow

                                

We Could be Heroes...In The Right Era....

Airman Chris R. Long (nka Bakunas) July 1981

   Another Memorial Day has come and gone, and again, all I could think about was how lucky my particular generation was/is. 

   I was born in the last years of the Baby Boomer generation, though how I could be classified as a Baby Boomer is beyond me. Hell, the Korean War had been over for more than a decade by the time I rolled out. 

   The particular media-friendly term (or label) that defines my generation is of no consequence here though. The issue at hand is how lucky I, and those in my particular age bracket (lets go + or - 10 years, as it's far more representative) were. 

   How was I lucky? For starters, I entered the U.S. Air Force at a time when the world was relatively peaceful. Yes, the Soviet Union still existed, and the Cold War was in full swing, but still, there were no large active wars going on. 

   What was going on? Well, as music was paramount in my consciousness at the time, I can remember that MTV got underway. I recall that specifically because the dayroom of the dorm I lived in had cable, and that was the only channel that was on every time I walked in. There was not a lot of variety though - lots of Pat Benatar and the Pretenders. I grew to loath both of 'em. 

   Computers for the home were just making the scene, too. Time Magazine even chose the computer as man of the year. How prescient. 

   The history of MTV and computers is fairly well known though. 

   What seems to have been forgotten is how poorly members of the U.S. Military were thought of at the time. It was only a few years after the end of the Vietnam War, and I can clearly remember the disdain with which I was regarded by civilians whenever I was in town. I didn't even have to be in uniform - just having short hair alerted everybody to your status as active-duty military.

    That's part of why I am so happy that Memorial Day gets positive pub now. I cannot readily express how happy I am that these days, members of the military - Enlisted, Officers, men, women, straight & gay, are not only regarded as heroes, but also shown respect. Real respect. Especially by the media. 

  That wasn't always the case. There seems to be a national amnesia when it comes to that, but I remember the scorn well.

                                         A1C Chris R. Long (nka Bakunas) 1983

   But, uhm, erm,...I'm skidding off on a tangent...damn ADHD...but while I'm digressing, well, I should confess here and now that I did not have any business being in the U.S. Military. Though I did do my job well (Hell, my very small unit, the 833 CSG Graphics Dept. , had a run at best in TAC in 1984), I had absolutely no military bearing. It would be great if I could state that I enlisted in the USAF because I felt a need to give back to my country what had been given to me by the sacrifices of those who had served in times past, but that would be a lie.


   I enlisted in the USAF to get out of the neighborhood I was born, raised, and stuck in. I simply wanted out. I chose the AF because my thinking was the enlisted didn't have to actually fight in the AF - it was the officers who had to do all the fighting in their fast, shiny, expensive fighter jets.


   My four-year stint was not heroic or adventurous. It was in fact very tedious, and at times flat-out boring. I wish I could have been a better enlistee, but that's only due to hindsight and age alerting me to the fact that, at the time, I was a fuck-up.


   And that's where the luck comes in, which is the point of this diatribe. My generation, the guys and gals I served with, we never had to actually do what is expected of members of the military. We never had to fight, to face the scourge of war. I am aware that while I served, the U.S. did lose members of the military in conflict -the '83 Embassy and barracks suicide bombings in Beirut, The Grenada Invasion & the Hezbollah car-bombings (again in Beirut).   


   Yes, we were indeed lucky. The world was a tense, volatile place at the time, but we got off easy, The Soviet Union would eventually collapse from the inside, which was something we in the service knew would happen (Well, those of us with NATO Blue Flag security clearance knew - the writing was indeed on the wall).


    Today's military has to deal with threat's from a religious, not ideologically motivated force. That is a much tougher row to plow than what we had to deal with. I cannot describe how happy I am that the majority of the people on the sidelines understand the difficulty they face. I also am very, very grateful that I'm not having to deal with it. My generation truly dodged a bullet.


 

Something I Have Learned

Your

Belief System

Does Not Determine

Whether Or Not

I Should

Consider You

A

Good Person

Your

Behavior

Does

Maybe It's A Timing Issue...

                                                          La Junta, Colorado 2011

   About 70 miles north-east of Warsaw lies the village of Boguty-Pianki. In that wee village (Pop. 2,900) I imagine there live people who absolutely love the name of their little burg. It may, in fact, mean something quite regal in the Polish language.

   I however, think it is quite funny. It sounds funny, and it's funny to say. There's a part of me that thinks this is so funny it's worth sharing with friends and family. However, that urge is tempered by the hard-won (meaning: I finally realised) knowledge that what I think is funny, and what everybody else thinks is funny, are usually two different things.

   Take this particular joke for example:

A young cowboy is walking around Manhattan late one evening wearing nothing but his big ol' cowboy hat, and his cowboy boots.

A police officer walks up to him and says, "Son, I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but I'm going to have to take you in for walking around like that."

The cowboy stares in disbelief at the police officer and replies, "But officer, I'm only doing as I was told."

The cop can't wait to hear this story, so he says, "What? Who told you to walk around Manhattan naked?"

The cowboy turns a little red, and says, "Well, I was at one of your local watering holes, and this very pretty lady came up to me and asked me if I was a real cowboy. I told her I was, and she said she had never met a real cowboy and wanted to buy me a drink. I'm not dumb, so I let her. She bought a lot of drinks over the next few hours, and then she asked me if she could take me to her place and show me some real New Yorker hospitality. I'm not some dumb hick, so I said sure. We went to her house, and she fixed me a few more drinks and showed me all this weird artwork and her big screen TV. Then she told me to sit on her big couch while she got into something more comfortable. I think I sat on that couch for about 5 minutes when she came out of her bedroom in nothing but some flimsy mosquito netting. That was when she asked me to get undressed too, but to leave my hat and boots on."

"So," said the cop, "Why are you walking around here naked?'

"Oh...because after I got undressed and was standing there in only my hat and boots, she threw herself down on the sofa and suddenly yelled for me to go to town."

   That joke kills me. Really. I think I've told that joke to 5 or 6 other people and the only person I got a laugh from has dubious hearing and I think was just being polite.

   Boguty-Pianki. *Hah!*

The Megaphone Of Vodka

                                                 Sketch, Thursday Afternoon, May 24th 2012

   There lives a man who stands on a corner using a megaphone to preach the word of his lord. The thing is, his lord is a little different than most, as his lord wants everybody to drink Vodka and dance.
   
   So this man with the megaphone, he shouts out, "C'mon people, get yourself some Grey Goose and let's two-step!" He does this all day long, without even stopping for lunch.


   I wonder, some days, how he supports himself. Also, how he got started. Was he inspired by another individual who had a megaphone and wanted everybody to drink Gin and do somersaults? Is he the anti-gin and somersault man?


   Most people ignore him as they walk by, though I have noticed one old lady bringing him a sandwich every so often. He takes bites between rants. He also seems to have an endless supply of water bottles nearby.


  I bet he's being underwritten by Grey Goose. They probably write it off on their taxes as a charitable donation to the mentally disturbed, too.

The...Worst...Possible...Thing...Ever

More or less 14 years ago
On a bus 
Crawling across the country
Or at least the southern states
Figured it was time for a change
Status update, if you will


Maybe it was the ride, the trip went slow
It felt fictitious
It was February and it was wintry
I was eating off paper plates
Everything tasted so strange
Or was it life that was the bitter pill?


Nothing cataclysmic, you know
Nothing suspicious
There was no open demonolatry
And not exactly desperate straights
But I needed to get downrange
Or at least a few miles down the hill


The past year felt random like a bad variety show
A bit capricious
Maybe it was simply
One of those odd, genetic traits
Or a weird neurochemical exchange
Everything had lost it's thrill


Up north, they were now sick of snow
I looked out at cactus
A far cry from the forestry
But not exactly aces and eights
It's not like I was a target on the range
But man I wished I wasn't losing my hair, and still




                                    

A few Moments In The Sun

                                                            Sunrise Lakewood Colorado

There's room for everyone under the sun

There's room for everyone under the sun

There's room for everyone under the sun

Walk outside

Walk around the block 

There's nobody to keep you

From your moment in the sun

There's room for pessimists 

There's room for believers

There's room for the cynics

And there's room for deceivers

Chase after your shadow 

Chase after your last chance 

Take a rest from your troubles

Relish the experience

There's room for the people you love

There's room for people you hardly know

There's room for the ones you wish would go away

Those living in Mansions and people on skid row

It's easy to miss the gift that's being handed you

When you have to spend so much time being practical

Take a minute, take an hour, take the day

To try to enjoy what is truly magical

There's room for the the one's who always have their hands out

There's room for the one's who never read

There's room for the one's who never slow down

And room for the one's who've never sped

Take a breath

Draw it in

Feel it feed your body

Then let it go

There's room for the people you'll never forgive

There's room for the people you sometimes miss

There's room for the people who helped you

Those who like order and the anarchist

Sometime tomorrow stop for awhile

Feel the sun cascading over you like a shower

Sometime tomorrow let yourself know

You're as beautiful as any other flower

There's room for everyone under the sun

There's room for everyone under the sun

There's room for everyone under the sun

Walk Like An Elk

                               Directly Across the Street From My House, An Elk Out For A Stroll


An elk appeared on the street where I live
It walked along the sidewalk like it was paying a visit
To a friend or a relative or some other aquaintance

It looked about the neighborhood, it was very inquisitive
I was hoping it wasn't bringing by popcorn or cookies to solicit
Maybe it was looking for a mate, pursuing a romance?

It stopped in front of Fred's house and looked about, tentative
But it wasn't long before it got bored and off it went
Probably for dinner on some tree bark or a tasty plant

I'm Going To Figure It Out One Of These Days

                                              No Flower More Beautiful in My Garden...

There I was - like every other old man trying to hold on to his youth
The bartender really didn't want to have to deal with it
She'd heard enough stories of one's that got away
From guys better looking, richer, and a lot less drunker


Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat nice
Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat decent


In the meantime, I'm here, like a demonic presence in a room
Emanating ill will from the walls
In the meantime, I'm here, like a chronic ambivalence in costume
Knocking back a shot of Walker Blue


Someday I will meet someone or maybe not
I'm going to figure it out one of these days



Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat able to relate
Someday, though there's a chance I won't want to

Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat able to relate
Someday, though there's a chance I won't want to


There's a chance I won't want to
I just won't want to and I won't care


Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat able to relate
Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat able to relate
Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat able to relate
Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat able to relate
Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat able to relate
Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat able to relate
Someday I will meet someone who may be somewhat able to relate

Lie Around In The House & The Dirt

                                                        Yep, it'll put ya right in the gutter...

A-B-C-D-
Yeah, yeah
Hah!
My bedroom looks like a crackhouse
There's underwear on the floor and someone's blouse
And I don't think the cat will ever forgive me
If it ever comes back to the house
Well it's not like the damn thing earned it's keep
Never picked up around the place
Just lazed around all day
And let out an occasional meow
And tore up the arms of the sofa


How the hell can you laugh at a time like this
They're stripping men of their dignity, it's sad, done live on the TV
Soon they'll be creeping in your backdoor
Stopping your friends in the street they'll ask for an interview
Seriously, walk right in your backdoor!
They have a nefarious plan
To get to your significant other
And if you're single, divorced, or have nobody on the line
They'll claim they found an ex-lover


Ratings kings between 9 and 11, that'll get you another season
Refuse to let them through the backdoor!
A person has a right to remain silent
Be sure to lock the backdoor
The writer doesn't look his age and he's certainly not a sage
How can she think that
Stay away from Androcles, no way is he an apostle
He doesn't even look fat


Squirrels in the trees don't mind if you're lonely
They have no idea of space, they just want peanuts
Once the ice cream man left them all the spoils
When the fridge went on the blink
The squirrels didn't even think
Just grabbed up what they could and headed for the cubby's


However, that has nothing to do with cleaning up this zoo
Are you sure you locked the backdoor?
The shirts and pants are in the hamper when
You hear someone at the backdoor
Are you going to let them in?
Offer them an aperitif
Mix it up strong and stiff
As if it's the last one you'll ever make


Yesterday you were opening birthday presents
Boarding up the backdoor
Can you put another log on the fire?
But it's right next to the backdoor
So? Come on, come on!
It's right next to the backdoor
Come on, come on!
It's right next to the backdoor


Heard about some poor sap in Iowa
Kickin' back in El Cerritos
Don't let 'em in the backdoor
Don't let 'em in the backdoor
So? Come on, come on!
Freakin' drunks in the hallway
C'mon, c'mon
Play
Play
Not to be discreet about it
Play
More play
Play 
Play

Multiple Explanations for an Instance

                    Rattlesnake Canyon, Santa Barbara California November 2001

What amazes me are people who are amazed that you're not amazed by what amazes them.


Or is that just a local peculiarity? As in, local unto myself


Utter obscurity, that's what I'm gunning for. Shouldn't be that difficult to pull off


But what if...what if...


There's a dump of a motel next to the old airport that's saving me a room
The bed's worn flat-out ratty and the shower stall is full of mold
The pipes shudder when the water's turned on and the cast iron faucet leaks
Two doors down there's an ice machine that hasn't worked since 1983


You'll know the worn-out old pro Leslie's home from the stench of her perfume
Her scrawny scarred-up cat will sit on the balcony rolling a tray of Acapulco Gold
With my sorry broken down ass I'll fit in well with all the freaks
It's in the middle of a grassless prairie (but I'll swear it's near the open sea)


Most days the hallways will echo with ghost sighs, it's like a Freemason's tomb
For the dispossessed, some reprobates, a few deviants, and the prematurely old
The Polis will come by looking for someone ain't no-one there that speaks
Lotta crops in the community garden but not one Judas tree


I'll sit by the empty pool with Rayban knock-offs on despite the relentless gloom
Sipping whiskey in the noonday sun fighting a malaise that has already taken hold
Landlord might tape another notice to a door giving somebody two weeks
The alkie in that particular rathole will have the money, hell he's probably a practicing MD


Old lady Wilkinson will chase away spiders everyday with her corn stalk broom
Yard sales will be held daily but all just crap that stays unsold
From the last time the owners remodeled the place to make it look boutique
That's my fate the mystic spinning of the threads have determined what's in store for me.

Chris Bakunas Paints A Rose In Four Easy Steps

                                      

Step one: After choosing an appealing subject (in this case, a rose from the rose bushes in front of my house - I took a picture and worked from that), sketch it in lightly on the canvas with pencil (I use a Dixon No. 2), then use Burnt Sienna to create a fairly detailed underpainting.

Step two: I subscribe to the eat-the-frog-first philosophy of getting things done (If the most challenging thing you have to do all day is eat a frog, do that first and your day can only get easier from there). For this painting, my frog is the rose, so I use thin layers of red (a tiny bit of Lamp Black for shading and Titanium White or Naples Yellow Hue for lighter tints - I strongly suggest goofing around with the color you want on your palette before committing it to canvas). 

Step three: Being a Stuckist, I stick to colors that are readily identifiable as what one would expect to be seen in nature. I suppose I should write something here about using various sizes and shapes of brushes to create form, texture, etc., but seriously, use whatever brushes you're comfortable with to accomplish the effect you want. I use flat brushes that are 1/4 to 1/2 inch wide to paint the leaves and stem. Oh yeah, my preferred colors for this step are Cadmium Yellow Pale Hue, Lemon Yellow Hue, Prussian Blue and Cobalt Blue Hue - mix 'em on your palette until you get green shades you like.

Step Four: The home stretch. Using Cerulean Blue Hue and Titanium White, I paint in the background color. Once I see where the painting would benefit with more contrast or brighter color, I add them. In this case I used Cadmium Red Hue, Vermilion Hue, and Alzarian Crimson mixed with Titanium White to give the rose more pop, then added a bit of the Cerulean Blue Hue to a light green I had mixed earlier to give the leaves a little more life. This painting is now done, so I sign it (well, signed it - I did this in November of last year).

There you go. Eat it, Bob Ross.

 

Ain't No Hodad, Squidlips!

                                                       La Jolla, California March 2012

    Chiki-ti-tas

    Not a mahina

    Or a swamp donkey

    Cooha works

    Or maybe even Gidget

    She knows how to lacerate

                                                      Shea

                                                      Down the line

                                                      Rippin' like a crusher

                                                      Dally da mamie

                                                      Notorious off the lip

                                                      Wicked

                                                      Hella pumping her board

                                                                                                   With a big gun

                                                                                                   Carving a bomb

                                                                                                    Amped

                                                                                                    In the trim

                                                                                                    Going off like a crippler

                                                                                                    Shrouding with a thruster

                                                                                                    Cowabunga 

                                                                                                                       

   

The Quest For A Jack London Experience

            Photo of Mt McKinley, Alaska taken in May 1990 with my old Olympus OM88

In May of 1989 I was hitch-hiking out of Whitehorse, Yukon Territories, with Alan Green, a British chap I had met a few days before. He, like me, was trying to get to Alaska.


How I got to be almost 1,600 miles north of the US/Canadian border with a young Brit (Alan was 21 years old at the time) is a story for another time. This story is about the generosity of a unique Alaskan family.


Alan and I had succeeded in getting rides from three different people (a camper who took us 2 miles up the road, a genuine Yukon Mountain man who was driving around with a shotgun across his lap who took us another 10 miles or so, and a semi-drunk German kayaker who got us about 40 miles further along the Al-Can).


So we stood on the side of an unpaved road in the middle of nowhere, cold as ice cubes. We walked constantly to stay warm, and jumped at every sound that came from the dense forest all around us. Large RV's would come into view every 10 minutes or so, and drive right on by - we looked, I'm sure, like two card-carrying members of Charles Manson's little clan.


Then a white Toyota minivan blazed on by. We didn't think much of it, just another vehicle that we cursed as it flew on past.


Five minutes later however, that same minivan approached us from the direction of Alaska. It came to a stop across the road from us and a young man's face poked out of the window and he asked us where we were headed.


I told him the both of us were trying to get to Alaska, at least Haines Junction. He replied that he and his brother were driving up to Fairbanks, and we were welcome to ride along.


The two brothers were Mike & Kirk Maynard - they had driven down to Whitehorse on an errand for their Dad, and now were headed back home.  


The Maynard brothers lived in Fairbanks, which, though still 400 miles from Anchorage, was at least in Alaska and much more civilized than where we were standing. I had been on the road for over a week, unshaven and unwashed, and must have looked like Charles Manson's taller, fatter brother - but they gave Alan and I a ride in spite of that.


The brothers were both in their late teens, and very friendly. They asked what the hell we were doing in the middle of nowhere, Canada, and I told them I was making my way to Anchorage. They didn't pry as to the why I was making my way to Anchorage, which I appreciated, and our conversation stayed light and impersonal for the most part. 


Alan regaled them with his adventurous trek from Merry Ol' England and across Canada as I drifted in and out of sleep.


It took about two hours to get to the nearest town northeast of Whitehorse, and they stopped there for fuel and to get some pizza. I didn't have much money (I think I was down to my last $20.00 at this point), but they wouldn't even hear my or Alan's offer to chip in - just told us half the pizza would go to waste if we hadn't been there with them.


I was very tired, and sleep kept winning me over as we continued northeast towards Fairbanks. I can't recall how long we spent on the road but I do remember one of the brothers waking me up at the U.S./Canadian border checkpoint when we made it to Alaska so I could show the border guards my ID, but everything else is a faded memory. 


We got to their home in Fairbanks in the late morning hours on this day almost exactly 23 years ago. Their mother (Mickey) welcomed us to their home and gave us blankets and pillows and showed us two sofas to sleep on. 


The next thing I can recall was being awoken by a boy of 10 or 12, and him telling me that breakfast was ready. I remember I washed my face in the bathroom before joining the Maynard's at the breakfast table.


The Maynard's included Dad (Ed), Mom (Mickey), the two older boys, and the younger son (Christopher). Everybody was as nice as people could possibly be. Mr. Maynard explained to Alan and I that he would be driving down to Anchorage later that day and we were more than welcome to ride along with him. I asked if there was anything we could do to repay their kindness, and Mrs. Maynard said we could help her clean out her horse's stable if we really wanted to.     


So Alan & I did just that. We went out to the paddock with her after breakfast (the rest of the family having dispersed to their own chores) and grabbed shovels and pitchforks and cleaned away. It actually felt good to repay in this small way what to me was a tremendous act of kindness on the part of this family that did not know me from Adam.


Mrs. Maynard took us on a little tour of Fairbanks after we finished with the paddock. We paid a visit to a caribou and musk ox ranch and the University of Alaska at Fairbanks, and saw a few of the more prominent frost heaves.

Mr. Maynard was back at the house around one in the afternoon, and he and his wife took Alan and I out to lunch at a favorite local restaurant of theirs. That was another meal they would not let us pay for. 


After lunch Mr. Maynard, Alan and I headed south along the George Parks highway to Anchorage. It was generally overcast and intermittently rainy, which, I was to learn, was the norm for May in Alaska, but we still were able to take in quite a bit of the grandeur of the Alaskan wilderness.


The drive was over 8 hours, but it seemed to go fast as I was overwhelmed by the vast expanses of forest and the incredible vistas that never seemed to end.


I clearly recall stopping at the Sheep Creek Lodge, a really nice, really huge log structure that I would return to many times after that initial visit,  and seeing Mt McKinley (Denali for you purists) for the first time - there was very little cloud cover, unlike as seen in the photo above which I took a year later. In fact, Mt McKinley always seemed to be shrouded in clouds every time I had a chance to see it after that first sighting on my first full day in Alaska.


Mr. Maynard drove us to the Youth Hostel in Anchorage. I thought we made extraordinarily good time, for it seemed to be late afternoon. Mr. Maynard wished Alan and I the best of luck after we got our gear out of the trunk of the car and then sped off. I have never seen him or any other member of the Maynard family since, but they remain some of the best people I have ever known.


As we walked up to the check-in desk, the clerk mentioned that we were in luck, as he was about to close for the evening. I was stunned and asked what time it was - it was 9:30 at night - that was my introduction to the endless day of the Alaskan summer.

The Light On Her Hips

                                                  A Rose is a Rose I Suppose


INT. ART GALLERY

MR. BOREAU, well-dressed visitor to the gallery, stands in front of a large canvas. He stares at it with appreciation.

GALLERY OWNER (With obvious forced enthusiasm): Isn't it exquisite? The artist has created a veritable manifestation of innocence and loss in a medium that defies conventional expectations.

MR BOREAU: What the hell does that mean?

GALLERY OWNER: Well, the use of line, and shadow, and the juxtaposition between overspecificity and contextualized negative space.

Mr Boreau looks at the painting intensely for a few seconds, an index finger to his lips. He coughs, then turns to look at the gallery owner.

GALLERY OWNER: Can't you just feel the optical sensation that the figurative representation of light playing upon the curvilinear aspects of the form creates with disjunctive perturbations?

MR BOREAU: Are you asking me if I'm getting turned on by the highlights on the models hips and breasts?

GALLERY OWNER: No, no, I'm just...well, do you not find the subject matter resonates with a primal longing to find structure in the randomness and chaos of the 21st century?

The gallery owner watches Mr. Boreau's face for a reaction. Mr. Boreau stares expressionless at the painting.

MR BOREAU: I like the colors. My house is stark white, which I hate. I hired an Interior Designer to come up with that paint scheme - completely white. I could have picked white myself.

GALLERY OWNER: Ah, erm, yes, Well, we do have an excellent delivery and installation service available of course. In certain situations, we can even bring the artist in to assist with placement in your home, to help place the painting for optimal viewing impact.

MR BOREAU: I know where I want to put it. How much?

GALLERY OWNER: This particular artist, Tagel, is currently fetching between $100,000 to $185,000 for his work. I believe this piece is $110,000, pre-tax.

MR BOREAU: $110,000? It's worth $25,000 to me. I'll write you a check.

GALLERY OWNER (Eyes shifting left to right furtively): That would be well below the current market value for this artist's work...but the economic climate being what it is...I can accept $37,000.

MR BOREAU: Okay, that'll work. I'll need it delivered next Wednesday - I'll be home all day for the cable guy next Wednesday, so it's got to be Wednesday.

The gallery owner nods in agreement as Mr. Boreau reaches into his coat for his checkbook. They head towards a small desk as the screen fades to black.

Just These Three Items...

                      Feelin' like a million bucks...

Most days I sit around hoping three things:


1) My cat will not only reveal that it can talk, but is actually a hyper-intelligent alien come to Earth to guide me through life - and is also a very, very funny comedian.


2) A violent electrical storm will pass through Lakewood and a bolt of lightning will strike the bags of grass seed, fertilizer and weed killer stacked on the side of my house, resulting in a potent concoction that, once spread over the lawn, turns that patchy, brown & yellow mess into a lush and beautiful carpet of green that never fades, scares the hardiest weeds away, and requires absolutely zero maintenance.


3) King Soopers will see the sense in having a bachelor food aisle and save me the hassle of having to walk all over the damn store to pick up my essentials.

The Maniacs Attack

Historical and curtural entities replacing the vinegar
A multitude of smaller squeaky sock monkeys
Feasting on the chili-pepper based condiments
Left behind by the guy who got his throat slit

Checking on the temperature using cinnabar
Herbert Edwin and Billy Seward were talented junkies
Churning out that Kerouac stream of consciousness
At the Six Gallery reading in a tailored double knit

Innovative psychedelic assemblage of kitchenware
Words stirred together like a manifestation of Scorsese
Hedrick painted while the band played on autonomous
Dancing Christmas trees from beer cans and spit

Musicians of the world drinking from the cuspidor
Glazes of lemon, basalmic vinagrette with the cream cheese
Raised in poverty like Brautigan and all those alcoholics
Electroconvulsive siezures induced when he was deemed unfit

Wearing emotions instead of clothes for the inquisitor 
Too young to be a boomer and too old to be an X (like Kesey) 
Never believing in a creed or symbolics
Falling together like Meighan and Vacarro bit by bit

On Occasion Floating Above The Clouds

 
                                                             Got a huge crush on the world
                                                                                                Been flirting with it for years
             Want to spend every waking moment in it's glorious embrace
                                   Spring afternoons and Summer full moons
                                                                     Autumn leave gatherings and Winter mornings
                                         The limit on minutes in a day
                                                                   Makes it difficult for me to get my fill
                         Even sleeping I'm dreaming of walking through it's trees
     With rays of sunshine dancing through the branches
                                                         Cool breezes cascading across my face
                         Damp grass underneath my feet 
                                                               Makes everyday feel like a million Valentines
                                         From a million secret admirers
         It's just this big blue and green globe though
                                                     Nothing but a rock speeding through space
                         Never knowing how much it has me glowing 
                                                                 And no way for me to tell

Good Ol' Ollie Bergstrom

Gustavus never saw the grasses of Dawson wave

He never imagined all that energy wasted on a rain dance

His city was built to protect the sea traders

The ships of Keiller never knew the plains

The children lay beneath rusting wrought iron crosses

Their parents friends with an agent for the U.P.

Who came in advance to build sod houses for workers

Easy terms no down payment finance

Get them from Sweden with promises of freedom 

Promise them 160 and a plow

The railroad needed labor

And everyone needed a second chance

Make a fence of barbed wire, make a sculpture too

Robert Henri had to change how he signed his work

When his father shot Pearson in the pasture

But underneath the paint he was a Cozad

All of those Swedes

Settling along the 100th meridian

Left the Baltic coast behind
No longer beholden to the arms of Gastrikland