“Those guitar strings, spewing fierce tears from his fingers
stretched wild, and whining; to speak of the glory to our age.
They are the grimace of a fighting, rebellious, new, generation.
Living like dust, slick-haired, they slam abrasiveness doors;
wrestling with badness, they live in a world of drink, drag, and scorn.
Insurgent wars, grappling with the cops’, mindfully stalled, growth.
Hated, but feared by many, they rip riding down that ‘go to hell alley!'
Lovingly, they fondle engines of racking pipe that fire up a boastful noise.
They are tail pipes and pool cues, rock music, and icy stares to a foreign eye
Something between hell and prison, seeds their love for wheels of chrome.
They turn their back on love's goodness, geared heel, scratch boot; and ride home;
home, to the gifts of the wind in their face and, the reason for the road,
lending their freedom to all who care to share in their wars.
Spoked wheels scratch, growl, and rumble the iron in their names.
Curly, Blade, Pipes, and Cutter, all brothers; knights of the centered, white, stripe.
Skulls and crossed swords give a beastful reverence to these lives;
should death's vengeful call, others climb into those insolent steps.
blindly into victory’s fierce, spreading crimes of blood and bone,
shift gears squealing , joyfully flying, flaming rage, through the gates, screaming:
"Our lives are endlessly, ending!”!

Joe

I hate to gross you guys out, but I did one of those Farmer things this morning. I didn’t have a handkerchief, so I put a finger on one side of my nose and blew! It (you know, it!), did not shoot straight ahead, instead, it went sideways, and went all over my cheek, beard, and tee shirt. This is a new tee shirt too, damn it!
Anyway, I had to change shirts, and wash my face after that one. I mean I didn’t EVEN expect all of that (you know, that) to come out of my little, under-sized nose. What a violent beginning for a beautiful day! I wonder how those Farmers do that. I’ve seen them just shoot it (you know, it) out of there nose and they don’t EVEN have to wipe it. They go on plowing, or fixing, or digging, without a hitch. Is that a pun? I think it qualifies as one; you know, hitch, Farmer, Horse, Tractor, Cow, etc. I love puns. I think sometimes, they’re quite punny. That’s a pun too, isn’t it? Hey, Joe scores again!
Anyway, back to the nose-blowing thing. Farmers always have big handkerchiefs; and I mean huge red, or blue, designed handkerchiefs-bandanas even. But they still insist on shooting that baby out of their noses. My wife says: “That’s disgusting!”, but I like it, and have joined in on the fun of it. Yes, that's right, I now shoot the snot! And I'm getting pretty damn good at it too! I have wasted all this time not finding my societal niche. It feels real good to finally discover your hidden talents.
I think there should be a competition. You know, get up teams and have tournaments. Hey, it would be a terrific bar game! The thing is to hold up on blowing your nose all day, to get that real good two shots ready, because you only have two good shots in you. There’s two sides of your nose, you know? Personally, my right side is dominant. So, there is a strategy to this. You know the, save your best for last, kind of thing. I think height, content, and distance should be the prerequisites.
Don’t you think that’s a good idea. Hey, and women could compete right along with the men! It would be all-inclusive game! Don’t you thinks that’s a great idea! Let’s chose teams, and go at it! Hey, I’ve got a great name for the competition–Snot rockets! Wow, what a great idea.
Excuse me, I have to go practice "Snot-rockets!"
Joe

I love to eat that processed meat and potato chips cooked in fat
man, when you chew what’s killing you well, how can you not like that
what makes the world a special place are women who smile, just to smile
because just one who stays on for fun, will hold you for a while

old times go in memories careless, from my old and wicked ways
the longer I live, the less I can give and, memory is leaving my days
the color of your sweet music has brightened my crippling soon
now, my wound is the tune I’m hearing but, you soothe it with your moon

have you ever heard a snowflake fall or, seen a wishful think?
There’s no lame in the shame of feeling the rain, worthy to claim a drink.
If we could walk on water, we’d be like the king of kings
but our feet are not wings, they’re sinkable things; a down into drowning it brings

the lesser of two evils, is still evil so what does that mean?
If goodness is best then, what of the rest? The test is the guest of the quest.
A worm is split in two pieces; each crawl from the other, away
which one has the mind, the will, then to find its way to the liveable stay (day) ]

As we jogged in unison, around the Company area, our DI (Drill instructor), Sragent Anthony Reddon, would begin singing, and we were obligated to repeat what he sang. We were obliged to do a lot of things we didn’t feel like doing in the Army. Singing was just about the last thing in the world I ever felt like doing in the Army, unless it was the Blues. I made up a lot of songs while I was committed. One was “My pancho’s hole is right on the neck, the rain dribbles down passed my ass, to my shoes. I swear to God when I get out of this wreck, I’ll walk away drunk, singin’ ten penny blues.”. I thought it was almost as good as “VD Blues”! Almost!
Sargent Reddon was a 6' 4", black guy, bad-ass mother fucker. When he talked to us, we got the notion that he hated all of us, even the black guys! I think I got that notion my first day in the Army. We were in the chow line, at the reception station. I was talking to one of my new friends. Hell, I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to talk in the chow line! Reddon came up behind me. I saw a strange look on ‘Doc’s” face. He was trying to signal me. I heard a low murmur behind me, but figured it was somebody else, talking to somebody else.
“What’s your number soldier,” the muttering voice said. I kept talking to Doc. (He was a conscientious objector, requesting to become a medic).
“WHAT’S YOUR NUMBER, DICKHEAD!” my underwear nearly burst forth with the “what the fuck was that”, shits! I turned and saw this face, beady eyes, pink tongue, and all, glaring at me.
“US54925450, sir!” I was shaking, scared. He stuck a finger in my face.
“Before you get out of here, you’re going know I’m the meanest mother fucker you’ve ever known,” I believed him. He looked at my name tag. “Coleman,” he read. Oh no, I had done what everybody told me not to do.
“Don’t volunteer for anything, and don’t let them know who you are,” my brothers had told me. On my first day at the company there he was at the front of our platoon. My God, he’s OUR platoon Sargent. I knew then, that this was not going to be a jog in the park.
So, we’re jogging along, around the company area when Sargent Reddon starts singing.
“I wanna be an Airborne Ranger.”
Oh no, he’s starting that song again. We didn’t even want to be soldiers, let alone Freaking Airborne Rangers. Jesus, who’d wanna be that shit?
“I wanna live a life of danger.”
Fuck you, Reddon! He slowed his jog and pulled up along side of me.
“I can hear every swingin’ dick in this formation except you, dickhead!” I was becoming far too famous, for my own good. And my name had suddenly changed from Coleman, to dickhead.
I immediately began singing louder than a Screech Owl in the cabin Tree. It became an irritation for everybody. The rest of the jog, I screamed the words purposeful, loud–too loud!
“Knock it off Joe,” one of my barracks brothers said, “the fucker will keep us out here all fucking day, man!” After our happy little jog, I spent the rest of the day burying my cigarette butt. As a special treat, some of the guys watched me, cheering me on. Then old Reddon said:
“That’s deep enough, now fill it in.”
When I got done filling it in, Reddon came back out.
“Coleman, I need that cigarette butt back. Dig down and get that for me!”
I heard the guys take pleasure in my futility. At 8:30 that night Sargent Reddon came out to see me. The way I was holding the shovel, I think he thought I was going to hit him with it. Hell, I could hardly hold it, let alone raise it! I was so damn tired, I could n’t have told him what day it was.
“You think you’re gonna get the best of me, Coleman?” Even in the dark, I could see his thick, pink tongue. He didn’t have to look at my nametag. He knew me in the dark. That was really a bad sign!
“No, Sargent, I don’t!” I yelled with military precision. I was told to take a shower and hit the bunk. The last thing I can remember thinking was:
“Fuck it; I still don’t wanna be no fucking Airborne Ranger!”

Joe, the dickhead.

The day has opened; the light across the Earth has spread to the far horizons; and now, it begins. A Bird shouts from my Tree. The tone is angry-have you ever seen an angry Bird? It doesn’t seem to fit his nature, but some other Bird is getting their ass chewed!
My Tree-she stands for me-for all of us- to see. I am inside another morning, and thankful for another day. Why can’t people be like Trees? They lift their arms to their God, the Air; their roots sink deep into the Earth, with a clawing and clinging, that grabs all the life she can from the Mother. My Tree leans slightly, with a gaping slash in its lower trunk. Her wound creeps almost up to her armpits, and I wonder, when will she fall? She is still filled with life, as her Apples cling to her arms. Some have already dropped in the early stages of their lives. That Tree is like life, isn’t it? Some of her children die early-I wonder if she saddens at that.
She still provides for her Nature; a soft shade from the heating Sun; food that is juicy, and sweet- some are good, some are wormy and bad. Then Tree is like life isn’t it? She is a marvel to look upon. The comfort of trees heals any mending of the human spirit. When the wind blows, she has grace in her flowing leaves, that sound like applause to Nature. Her old trunk is wounded, but twists away to avoid the calamity of storms. In Winter she stands, in a stillness, naked. She lifts her twisted arms, and prays for the Spring, when she can once again, flourish with life. She is wild to the stormy dance; she is love to her Earthy ground; she is peace to the human eye.
How long can she stand? I guess she is like me. Her years are my days; my years are her moments. Her mystic stand gives me courage. Like me, her wound is deep, and scarred. But she still has that life, and I am in awe of her continuance. Except for the angry Bird, who still bitches within her breast, she is within total peace. The constant pleasure of her ever-giving love brings my soul to a calm, as she meditates in her tired, but loving, stand.
My Tree-she stands for me. The Tree is like life isn’t it?
Joe