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Nov 25, 2012 - 10:55am PT

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
you want to blow my book sales in
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do

Charles Bukowski
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 26, 2012 - 08:53am PT
He’s an uncommon love for the common man and godly wisdom resides in the least of things so that it may well be that the voice of the Almighty speaks most profoundly in such beings as lives in silence themselves.--Roy Tor Wrong Lee, chinese intellectual, on cloning the Devil

What the Fvck, it's Charles Buk.
Bluebirds fly and real men cry:
Those Euros flowing in and all that urine flowing out.
He's still a poet, though dead and commercialized
And even given as Christmas presents.
That's the spirit, consumers.
But Chuck Buck isn't Chuck Berry.
Some of his visions are way too scary
Let's just wait till/for rock 'n roll to really die.
In a Patrick Sawyer internal-view
Which I am watching, he is asked:
Who's likeliest to read you?
Who's likliest to heed what they read?
Who's Next, do you like that album?
It turns out that Chuck's checkbook
Is loaded with signatures of those who read him.
Marlow, for one, a Euro; Lolli, for two, disgusted;
And Mouse, who just had to check him out.
Like follows like like drink follows drink.

I thought I was Swedish, but I was just borracho, Dios mio!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 26, 2012 - 09:43am PT
Downward Monday Spiral

Poor damned Monday
Wants it still to be Sunday.
Not too happy in its own calendric skin
Wants like hell to be free of all out sin.

Long holidays are OK, for Monday can then still come out and play.

Monday isn't guilty of a thing except having to follow a sanctimonious day like Sunday.
In a parralel universe it might be Sinday,
But why be such a bitch?
It might you get voted off the team, like poor Grenday,
Named for that one, yep,
Whom was shown the door by Bolt-Tosser for making light of the Dark.
But we heard that story second-hand and read it in AP English, freshman year.
Well, history didn't really exist back then,
When ever back then took place back, back, back in the Day-Daze,
When in spite of our modern outlook,
Days didn't mean much and Truth and Whimsy consorted more equally.
Time was asleep at the wheel.
We had eight days here on Earth.
Now there are just seven and we may have it right.
Only Time will tell, but he's over at Starbucks with ChuckBucks.
Sobering us up is Monday's job.
Monday is the Salvation Army of the span we call the Week.
In fact, the muses suggest, the eight-day version was called the Weak,
Signifying Earth's relative place in the Cosmos.
Pretty heavy stuff for a Monday,
But I haven't much time myself,
So I just play like I know these things
And hope like the Prodigal Son
That you laugh and think
"Monday, Monday, such a tragedy."
Yep, Monday used to be another kind of day of the Weak.
Now it's the worst for many.
Unlike Black Friday.
Now that's something to think about, shoppers.
Think about returning the Charles Buk book,
And order one of neebee's Jake's Ranch series.*
You'll thank Grendel/Grindl, Greenday,
And A Confederate General from Big Sur.

Have a peachy day, Americans, in the Amazon jungle.

* The story of Jake and his twin sister's love, will touch your heart forever...
* *

Blatant commercialism? Not in the least. It's the least I can dofor our beloved nature-praising, God-fearing lady of charm.
What else can I say to thank her for us?
Hey there say a prayer or draw a cartoon
For the little lady of the haiku moon.


Social climber
Nov 26, 2012 - 11:41am PT
hey there say, mouse...

well, my my...
what did i spy, with my little eye...

as the kids' games goes...
well, now you 'knows'...

i spied a mention of my book...
well--after YOUR mention, to take a look...


say, all, the one link though, i had to sadly let go...
it was doubled in the pay, up to 25.00 for the year, i think it did a show...

but the '' is still good...
and this one, (soon to be below) is for you to see which
books, you may want, or order-should:

(go to the STOREFRONT link, on that page...
and see the 'lastest rage'...

we, as to neebee books, that is...
in your spirit, they really will a'fizz...


see if this works, as a storefront link...
i say and hope, with a wink...
(if not, just hit STOREFRONT on the main deal_

Sport climber
Nov 26, 2012 - 12:34pm PT
To Mouse himself

No poetry here:

Be kind to Mouse
Don't judge too harshly

Know it or not?
It's there.

Thrives outside the center?

There's many ways...only...

Be kind to Mouse
make his day...
his way...

The legislator

Yeah, shucked simile is just one of the strengths of the text and fitting it's subject quite well.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 26, 2012 - 02:11pm PT
The legislator's rule of thumb! ha-ha! heehee!

A 'haha' is a fence set in a ditch (Scrabble dictionary).

And they don't make no mo Ho-Hos.

Part of the Hole Mouse Story:

He made his way into the Ditch, down the south bank, then under the NPS haha made of withies, vines and sticks. It was laughable how easy it was. "Ha-ha," he laught to his left mouse, while his inner mouse was most hopeful. Heeding his instincts now, he followed the Ditch for some ways before he climbed out the north bank near Turtle Dome. He would find that left thunb in Thuolumbne Meadows eventually. Or one like it. Tome thumb things are just not too important, except it had to be a left. Color, length, strength, none of those mattered to him. He just wanted to play his guitar like a normal guy. Gladly, badly, radly, it didn't matter. As long as he could bar the frets!

Not to worry, this story is never-ending, too.

Pottery in prose is the next subject. Shards of shreds of shucked simile lend distinct grace to your text, a must-see for musetry lovers.


Trad climber
BackInTheDitch BackInTheDirt BackInTheDay
Nov 26, 2012 - 02:30pm PT

Got away from me
Long times away
Once the snow started falling
It went away
Summer is back
Chasing me to a place that should be covered with snow
Winter light falling on late summer landscape
May prove to be the weirdest thing, ever
Donald Thompson

Trad climber
Los Angeles,CA
Nov 26, 2012 - 02:48pm PT
On the Link

No rider on this metrolink train
seems out of place
not even the young white guy
kissing his red-banged girl.

Or the Latino woman
old, nervous and alone
clutching her black webbed basket
spun from Michoachan soil.

She is bringing gifted bits of clothes
to little Mijo down the line
in an apartment that smells of chorizo
soft leather, and homemade tortillas

I imagine the conductor
bored with the endless bypass
of street to script to street
nearly falling asleep.

His voice still thick with the slumber
of union meetings and echoing speeches
rallied somewhere in a lazy mind
"Claremont Station"

And the impossibly sexy young lady
who boards in a bustle of cell phones
each one geared to a diamond ear
cooing in voluptuous frames and distant boyfriends

Her body cannot be contained
by the gleaming lotion that smells of sugar daddies
too drunk to drive her home
way out in Cucamonga.

They each and everyone
belong to the link
like passengers on the Titanic
so near to tragedy,so far from home.

So far from home
the man with the telltale patches
wearily swinging his backpack
from side to side

He looks like the Canadian wilderness
lost in Chola land
a moneyed vagrant
warmed by portable butane stoves.



Trad climber
The rock doesn't care what I think
Dec 15, 2012 - 11:00am PT
Wish I didn't feel inspired to post this today. But it needs to be out there.


Dirge without Music

Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Dec 15, 2012 - 03:52pm PT
On a much lighter note
Richard Wilbur poetry and art or art and poetry.
Richard Wilbur poetry and art or art and poetry.
Credit: mouse from merced

I dance my fool head off to entertain people and to educate people, most of whom can barely bring themselves to notice

Who live in the cross-hairs, always on the brink, addicted to both the bottom line and the summit

Can't go a day without chasing power, humbling or being humbled.

Why do I dance for them?

What choice do I have?

You either dance for them

Or become one of them.

--Jules Feiffer, 1999

Credit: mouse from merced

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Dec 16, 2012 - 01:17pm PT

Having lived long in time,
he lives now in timelessness
without sorrow, made perfect
by our never finished love,
by our compassion and forgiveness,
and by his happiness in receiving
these gifts we give. Here in time
we are added to one another forever.

--Wendell Berry
Donald Thompson

Trad climber
Los Angeles,CA
Dec 16, 2012 - 01:34pm PT
The Fire Maples

I looked out the small window
northwestward to fire maples
just as colder fires lit
a brazen ember within

Red green in splintered sorties
orange , and yellow , and fat with flame
leapt at foaming clouds
along the hem of attic windows

I can almost hear the leaves of autumn
crushed by the sudden breeze
each drying carcass dragged across bumpy asphalt
then raked to the curb at noon

When the fire maples change
in the way poets will describe
November is down to pass
Into winter's sweeping broom


Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 2, 2013 - 05:55pm PT
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection:
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is lead forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action —
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

~ Rabindranath Tagore ~

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 2, 2013 - 05:56pm PT
Fire Maples and Epitaph... very good Mouse and DT!


Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 3, 2013 - 06:02pm PT
For Presence

Awaken to the mystery of being here
and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.

Have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.

Receive encouragement when new frontiers beckon.

Respond to the call of your gift and the courage to
follow its path.

Let the flame of anger free you of all falsity.

May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame.

May anxiety never linger about you.

May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of

Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek
no attention.

Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.

May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven
around the heart of wonder.

~ John O'Donohue ~

(To Bless the Space Between Us)
Fossil climber

Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
Jan 3, 2013 - 06:42pm PT
Does doggerel qualify? I rather enjoy Ogden Nash.

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Jan 6, 2013 - 04:31pm PT
Not quite poetry, but.... ahhhhh all Rumi is poetry. What was I thinking?

“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”

Should be the official taco motto!


Jan 6, 2013 - 04:58pm PT

wash his sheets
and wipe him clean
and in his misery
I reach for the better
to nurse and to heal

I'll take it all
through the sleepless nights
the rough days
into a better tomorrow

tomorrow you will feel better
my sick and weary child
tomorrow will be your day

today let us heal
for all the tomorrows

when you won't need me
when you will rarely see me
I'll gladly take them
for all the good tomorrows
that will be there
for you my child
for you

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 6, 2013 - 05:27pm PT
Anstasia, how mellow a mom you are. I think "yer in" to something good.
Today's the feast of the Epiphany, BTW.

Epiphany - acrostic
by Grey Mouser

Energy cascades within synapses of thoughts
Pure and shining whispers of unclear attention
Instances of measured words that disappear
Purpose riddled spectacles of transition
Hemorrhaging conceptual perceptions
Avalanche of meaning brilliantly surmised
Noesis clear to sparkling realization
Yellow has become the color of love

Author notes
Noesis - the psychological result of perception and learning and reasoning
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 11, 2013 - 07:16am PT

Leonard Cohen
God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot lyrics

Lyrics: Cohen/Recorded By Buffy Sainte-Marie

God is alive, magic is afoot
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is afoot, magic is alive
Alive is afoot, magic never died
God never sickened
Many poor men lied
Many sick men lied
Magic never weakened
Magic never hid
Magic always ruled
God is afoot, God never died
God was ruler
Though his funeral lengthened
Though his mourners thickened
Magic never fled
Though his shrouds were hoisted
The naked God did live
Though his words were twisted
The naked magic thrived
Though his death was published
Round and round the world
The heart did not believe

Many hurt men wondered
Many struck men bled
Magic never faltered
Magic always lead
Many stones were rolled
But God would not lie down
Many wild men lied
Many fat men listened
Though they offered stones
Magic still was fed
Though they locked their coffers
God was always served
Magic is afoot, God is alive
Alive is afoot

Alive is in command
Many weak men hungered
Many strong men thrived
Though they boast of solitude
God was at their side
Nor the dreamer in his cell
Nor the captain on the hill
Magic is alive
Though his death was pardoned
Round and round the world
The heart would not believe

Though laws were carved in marble
They could not shelter men
Though altars built in parliaments
They could not order men
Police arrested magic and magic went with them
Mmmmm.... for magic loves the hungry
But magic would not tarry
It moves from arm to arm
It would not stay with them
Magic is afoot
It cannot come to harm
It rests in an empty palm
It spawns in an empty mind
But magic is no instrument
Magic is the end
Many men drove magic
But magic stayed behind
Many strong men lied
They only passed through magic
And out the other side
Many weak men lied
They came to God in secret
And though they left Him nourished
They would not tell who healed
Though mountains danced before them
They said that God was dead
Though his shrouds were hoisted
The naked God did live
This I mean to whisper to my mind
This I mean to laugh within my mind
This I mean my mind to serve
Til' service is but magic
Moving through the world
And mind itself is magic
Coursing through the flesh
And flesh itself is magic
Dancing on a clock
And time itself
The magic length of God.
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