Creative Processing, Ghost Dog Love

Ghost Dog Love

da pain, da pain, da pain
rains snows sleets dogs and dogs.
epic dogs, pheonix dogs, Rumi dogs
across my core, through our collective soul

Brother John taught me Stinkface.
works for bright light
hard emotions, angry or sad
a mask of facial tension
reflected darkness of our abyss

Ghost dog becomes ghost dog
charges forever inside me.
energy seemed boundless.
Now so in soothe

Tidbits, Trains, and Cycling

"I'm ain't nothing but a dirty dog, a briny hound, a dirty dog." --Jimmie Revard's Oklahoma Playboys

Cycling loves me so much that reciprocating comes preternatural. Had a way sweet ride along the Richmond shoreline Saturday - Point Isabelle to Ferry Point then back through the tunnel by Point Richmond, through what the wife & I used to call "Illegal Activities Land", back to Point Isabelle. To top it off our wonderfully unhurried trio threw in some impromptu adventure mountain biking to attend a King Cake party at the Albany Landfill, where I of course got Frog (the saviour) in my slice of cake, and so will be hosting a party this Friday in Oakland (buzz me for details, or comment on this post). Little sore, super stoked, "like a couple of kids, flipping our lids".

Been wondering what gets us through the nights not fun. Each of us with our own set of tools - meditation, liquor, television, books with yellowed pages, hot baths, the wild wonders of ancient and modern medicine, + a wide variety of excercise routines. More to the point is what might get me through this dark & stormy now. Sleep, bicycling, better things. No Selping! (not Sleeping + Not Helping)

My favorite part in André Gide's "The Counterfeiters" was when they dared each other to lie between the tracks as a train passed over. Then that one guy (my hero) did it. He passed out from fear as the train passed over him, then woke up feeling transformed, not to mention with an awful ringing in his ears. I'm a firm believer in donning one's stunner shades, ear plugs, helmet, gloves, and going dumb. Push your luck!

"I'm going down to the railroad, lay my head on the track. When that train come along I'm going to jerk it back." --from Dirty Hangover Blues by W. Lee O'Daniel & His Hillbilly Boys. That line cracks me up every time. As Homer Simpson so astutely put it: "I thought I had an appetite for destruction but all I wanted was a club sandwich."

Long Live Anna Nicole!

Turns out that we get to keep this lovely pink poodle about a third of the time, since her owner's new husband doesn't believe in allowing canines indoors, and Anna Nicole's truly a house dog, especially during the colder months. The kids call her Anna Banana, and adore her without reserve. Anna's hair seemed to obscure her vision, so my mom had the zippity idea of tying it up. So much more punk rock now. But really, dogs do rule, this world as well as all other worlds.

Dogs Rule

Dogs show their six years each of living, fatter, limpier, and more rheumy in the eyes. Love them doggies, yes I do. The black dog is mine, funny that way, love them both, but feel much more deeply reflected in the shining ripples of chocolate fur, devourer of souls, loyal to her priceless wild side. Time, always winding up, irrelevant to true enjoyment.

Dogsleeping

The boy has become quite a dogsleeper, practicing for his upcoming raising by wolves. We have evaluated several boarding schools as well as a few packs of wolves, and it looks like wolves are the best choice all around. But seriously, who did "let the dogs out"?

Pink Poodle & Silver Needle

We had this fabulous pink poodle named Emma on loan from our dog groomer. Her shop just happens to be named Deseree's Pink Poodle. Deseree also has a Clydesdale that the kids have both ridden, eternal gratitude for that. The dog wanted to live with us forever, but mommy came to get her, maybe to visit again after a minute. That dog was heck of trippy.

Just finished up a nifty half-ounce of Silver Needle, a rolled white tea. My good friend that hails from Canton showed me how each leaf dives to the bottom and then floats back up to the top three neat times. Memories of my toy submarine from a 1975 box of Cheerio's, that did the same trick powered by baking soda tablets that were apparently difficult for my parents to procure, because that worked like once, and then remained forever without fuel but with me always hoping. The tea leaves from this mega-high quality tea I picked up at Far Leaves did the trick perfect though, and then lay ever so mesmerizing with their stems sides down and the tips risen, like heck of good whole tea leaves should. The color brought memories of dawns that made me cry with joy, like dear Emerson crossing his field of snow, self-reliant. It'll heal all time when you drink it right, laying waste to both future and past, along with their seventy-seven billion legions of demonic ghostriders. Blessed are the tea growers.

Canine Perspectives

The dogs have opened my soul, released the inner hellhounds, taught me to throw my whole weight against the fence so that one eye can clearly be seen through the gap in the boards created my unrestrained assault, freaking out pedestrians and testing my enclosure. When road undulations cause the vehicle I'm driving to rock front to back I become a racing Rottweiler. My tongue hangs out and commences to dripping, my eyes get that wild, far-away look, a red filter gets applied to all I see. As I race along I throw my head down and to the left, so as to sniff the width of the road as I raise my head, sensing the fears, history, and treats of the vehicles that passed before me, low-frequency dog noises issuing forth from my frothy maw, synchronized with twitchy zaps of dog adrenaline making my hind legs reach almost past my shoulders. Then I ease up just a bit and howl at the most available celestial object.

Gumbo woke me up from my passed out state on the sofa last Monday morning about 12:20 AM, just in time to check out the Perseid meteor shower. Howl, twitch, froth, yelp, mark my territory, time for sleep.