far open places
empty blue skies
dramatic thunderstorms
sage brush to pinon pine
dusty, dirt roadways
mountains, sand, rocks
wild herds of mustang
milky-way at midnight
it is good to be alone

I narrowly avoided the Call of Cthulhu by letting it go to voice mail.

They never saw his nose twitch at the smell of the newly turned piles of dirt. What they did see was a grown man join his three dogs as all four rolled in the brown earth till absolutely covered in moist loam and happiness.

The cops said they weren’t breaking any laws.

Written in July 1972. For being only 11 or 12, I think I was a little obsessed with my hometown and death…

Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
My desire lives beyond the tallest redwood tree.

Too far have I traveled, so much have I seen,
Heights of the mountain, the valleys below,
Hot sandy deserts, the sunset a glow.
Friend, carry me back to that river I know.

Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
My desire resides beyond the tallest redwood tree.

Run through the fern, a child of the Glen
At night shine those stars, Heaven’s preview
Won’t you carry me back to those days where
Time and my life along that river shined true.

Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
My desire survives beyond the tallest redwood tree.

Cheers at the sunshine and smiles in the rain
Still take me back to where memories remain
Hearts filled with fire, ever higher and higher
As they carry me back to the banks of the Klamath.

Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
God deliver me home to my childhood reverie.

Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
My desire lays buried beyond the tallest redwood tree.

Returning from the North Coast, I took the longer route home. Crossing over the pass, I decided I wanted a beer and I quickly found a bar.

The couple in the corner were British, their brogues echoed every time the house band fell silent. I ordered a second beer, knowing I should be home already.

The British man wiped his mouth, took a gulp of whatever they were drinking, got up, and approached the stage. After he began playing, I quickly knew that the couple were Paul and Heather.

The music was very good and so was my third beer.

“No one really cares.” That’s my leading comment when it comes to deciding what I’d like to write about…

Spanish Springs area, Northern Nevada, July 13, 2019…

Light shift, yellow, orange,
Darkening the already dark
Rooms behind the curtains.
Effects noticeable and now.
Wild land fire, burning hill

South, moving northbound.
So much dense gray smoke
And very little information.
Voluntary evacuations, the
Services moving neighbor

To neighbor, door by door
Those red globes flinging
Air support overhead and
Droning, ever droning up
Then down, then up again

Thick slurry drops, target
Attack and hand crews on
The lines, until nothing is
Seen but blue, clear skies,
Blackened hills, scorched.

Singed coyote trots away,
In search of another home
While ours remain saved
From another man-made.
To the victor go the spoil.

“The backyard feels so cluttered,” she said, staring out the back window.

“It’s a simple procedure and I’ll be right there, holding you hand, while you’re having it done,” he said.

“Clean up is a breeze, you said?”

“Your avoiding the subject.”

“Not really. I’m talking about clutter – so are you — aren’t you?”

“If you don’t wanna go through with it, that’s fine by me.”

“Really? You could live with the ‘mess?’” she air-quoted.

“Perhaps.”

“Well, that’s a non-committal answer if I ever heard one.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“Actually, I can live forever with our clutter, even if you can’t.”

She was not dressed as a traditional Paiute or Shoshone woman; she was dressed plainer. More leather, no beads, no shells, no fringe, no make-up.

Her demeanor was friendly, though we never spoke, she did smile, so did I. I sat on the rock, watching as she trouped quickly, quietly and deftly by and up the hillside to  a nearby grove of Pine nut trees.

She stopped and looked back at me, still smiling before disappearing into the grove. I could still see her feet, beneath the boughs of a tree she stepped behind, before they dematerialized into nothingness.

Thinking it was a trick of the eye, I raced up the hill, but could not finder her. After searching for about fifteen minutes, I returned to the rock on which I sat when she first passed and have not seen her since.

How can I expect you to believe this when I can hardly believe it myself — then missing Kenny Veach enters my confused mind?

“So, do you think you can live with driving only 55 miles an hour from now on?” Dad asked.

“I guess so,” I answered, “Why?”

“Soon it’s gonna be the new law of the land.”

“You mean no more going 60 or 65?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t get it. Why?”

“It’ll save gas and we won’t have anymore more of those gas lines.”

“Driving five-miles slower saves gas?”

“That’s what they say and Tricky Dick’s gonna sign it into law next week, I expect.”

“Really? Is that the president’s job – I mean to make everyone save gas? And your okay with this?”

“Well, it is a matter of National Security,” Dad said, his face deathly serious.

My mind fell back to that rainy day, four-and-a-half years before, as dad helped me deliver newspapers in our newly purchased gold-colored German engineered Opel Cadet. I smiled at having not once read the paper I was launching at neighbor’s porches daily and how I vowed to know every story printed in it before loading my paper bag.

Then I chucked about how neither the president’s signature nor national security had managed to stop me from driving 70-miles-per-hour where ever I could, but that should my folk’s find out…