The brand of insanity which you are likely to find at your local Wally World is poison! It is mass produced in cookie cutter presses, operated by mass media lobotomized, slave labor. The finest insanity is cultivated in the rich loom of an individual’s soul, a seed of imagination, germinated with the sweat of defeat and ridicule. Sweet vintage insanity is a delicacy to be reserved and savored by those select few, who can truly appreciate it.
Have you enjoyed your portion today?
My daydream, of late involving trucks
is one in which, driving my obnoxiously loud
smoke belching, oil leaking, primer and
flat black patchwork, “‘58 Peterbuilt Rat Rod”
I roll into a 7-11, get out, slam the door
a few times trying to make it to stay shut,
walking away only to have it squawk open again
Shrugging I walk inside and buy a Slurpy.
Maybe I’ll build a trailer for it
and haul my scooters to “Sturgis”.
…scarred and scared, a child pleads with “God” for a miracle.
It is no longer the abuse nor the fear of discovery that shivers her,
A ferrel beast in skirts taunts, a plague of selfdoubt.
When perchance one may cast an unapproving glance,
the “Demon Queen” leaps, tearing her hair, amid howls of glee,
“Who do you kid? Your hands and those feet, that face?
you might do best to grow a beard.” Though assuredly she is
easy to behold and sounds as the birds, when she sings.
“Politely to you they speak, at your back, they laugh.
All think you a fool!”
More insidious is another which she has never seen.
The malefactor lurks out of periphery. With breath foul,
it leans and whispers, “What if…” Oh Lord, the sound,
it’s voice is enough to steal the breath! “What if,
on this path, past the point from which non return,
all that’s lost and ridicule suffered, “The heart being
deceitful above all” you discover your mistake.
Fear not, though all will forsake you, I shall remain
to remind, only yourself is to blame.”
Of the monsters in the Id, this one is despised mostly.
Her’s is the visage of the essence of youth,
tresses of flame hue, countenance fair and freckled.
At first encounter, words escaped me expect to ask,
“Please, child you must tell me your name.”
Her answer pierced my spirit to it’s very quick,
“I am the vision of that which might have been
but now for certain shall never be,
My name is Heather Rose.”
The last of the day’s amber and crimson sinks into the sea,
a sumptuous vessel leisurely churns blue-green to frothy white.
Gazing out to the horizon, reflecting on the pleasantries of the day,
Started by one of many attending servants tasked
with ensuring constant comfort, “Perhaps another…?”
“No, No what more could I have need of? All is well.”
Taste of salt on the lips, from wind swept sea and sweat.
As callused hands rest from strain against the oars,
a sip from the last of the water.
Sky’s dim and a breeze cools a blistered face,
“One more day, PLEASE, just one more day.”
Precious water, streams down the cheeks….. forever lost.
As I witness the beauty that is this,
that which has existed for tens of hundreds of thousands of years.
I hear it say to me, “You are as old, if not then older than I.
As they can do nothing to DESTROY me
they can do naught to harm you.
The spirit, that is the essence of the majesty
which appears before you now, will reclaim and heal
that which is hers.
We are kin you and I, Fear Not.”
Lat was a seller of guitars to the stars.
Bet Midler, Grace Slick or Aerosmith…
He could supply their needs,
no matter how varied their tastes may have been.
Lat was an international adventurer of the sort,
who “The Smugglers Blues” might have been written for.
Lat was a racer of the “Jefferson Airplane” sponsored,
blown alcohol hydrofoil before that fish took flight.
Lat was the lover of the beautiful Kat and the Barney and Ralphy birds
and Colorado Kool-aide.
Lat was a catering truck entrepreneur,
the captain of his dream boat and
a sharpener of shears.
Lat was a kicker of butts and a patter of backs.
Lat was the forgiver of a pirate,
who stole the “REDDY JANE”
Lat was a friend, a confidant,
more of a Dad than a natural father.
Lat is loved and long missed.
Lat, rest well in the bosom of your god,
who you named “HAROLD”.
