homeless man

~

So

what does it take to

build a home

?

~

~

Where

do the lines

dividing

“home” and “away”

emerge

?

~

~

If a sense of home resides

in the heart of human perception, itself,

is anyone ever homeless

?

~

~

Can one have a physical home

and

still yet

be homeless

?

~

~

~

questions

from

The Lawn Chair Philosophy Foundation

~

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a walk on water

~

lord

have

mercy

~

~

christ

have

mercy

~

~

oh lord

christ jesus

graciously

hear us

~

~

god

our father in heaven

have mercy on us

~

~

god

the son

redeemer of the world

have mercy on us

~

~

god

the holy spirit

have mercy on us

~

~

holy trinity

one god

please have mercy on us

~

~

jesus

son of the eternal father

formed by the holy spirit in the womb of holy mary

please have mercy on us

~

jesus

the word of god

made into blood & bones

please have mercy on us

~

sacred temple of god

tabernacle of the most high

burning furnace of charity

please

have

mercy

on

us

!

~

jesus

meek & humble of heart

jesus

victim of our sins

jesus

salvation of those who trust in thee

jesus

delight of all the saints

please

make

our

hearts

like

to

thine

!

~

amen

~

Lady Wisdom’s pawn o’ fortune

Hello Pete!

Well, in reading around the Book of Wisdom & the Proverbs, yes, t’is hard to find Sofia anywhere about, unless you replace on some occasions, the word “wisdom” with the name “Sofia,” for in the Greek language, I’ve been told, “Sofia” means “wisdom.”

Then, of a sudden, you’re reading about quite a gal rather than just another mundane quality of God.  Before you know it, you might find yourself quite in love with this Lady Wisdom who as plain old “wisdom” is often referred to as “she” & “her” anyway, as by King Solomon.

Some disciples in the early days of The Church have been known to refer to the Holy Spirit, as in the Holy Trinity, as Sofia.  You’ve got the father, the son, and the holy spirit.  Go ahead & give them proper names, you got Jehovah, Jesus, and ~ there she is again, Sofia!

So I found a Catholic litany to the Holy Spirit on the internet, juggled a few words, replaced Holy Spirit with the name Sofia, & found myself falling in love with a goddess, of which, I’m sure, Mark Jenson would disapprove.  But meanwhile, dead scripture for me is suddenly alive & breathing…

Your brother

Clyde

~

no reward

.

~ from ~

Road’s Cannon

~ old pulp fiction ~

.

     It was in New Orleens, under the moss-hanging trees of Audubon Park, where Road stepped with a crunch of park turf beneath his boot ~ out of his soft clutched, broken safety braked, burned out signal bulbed, electrical wire shorted here and there, broken glassed, dented, loose bolted, chipped paint and faded hunk of studymobile.
     He stood before the small lake in the park, surrounded by squirrels, black kids, and fishing poles ~ and he wondered where his reward was.
     He’d done it.
     And he’d done it for nothing ~ but, but for the blatant satisfaction of doing it?
     Bah!
     Why?
     Stupid question.
     No reward rang in his ears.  No reward and no pay.  His shoulders sagged and his head ached.
     Poncho and Memo ~ gone their own ways now.  And payed.
     Tulip ~ humph!
     The cannon ~ the authorities could muse over it.
     The U-Haul trailer frame ~ discarded in some parking lot.
     The stolen college books would probably be returned to San Diego State University ~ never seen by any prison inmate.  The Crockjaw Parish Prison wall would be rebuilt.  Road would be hunted down and arrested.
     The giving was enough?  The giving was all?
     Road thought about how it had felt to touch the hot tip of his cigar butt to the cannon’s fuse ~ how it had felt wading the box of books and Tulip sitting on top across the canal next to the prison ~ how it all felt ~ and now his shoulders sagged ~ and Road frowned grimly at nothing.
     Across the lake a man’s glossy black Labrador Retriever dog splashed into the water and took after a now paddling madly white duck ~ probably with clipped park wings.  The dog’s drooling jaws closed on the duck’s tail, pulled out a mouth full of feathers.
     The duck quacked horrified ~ paddled for life.
     The dog ~ strong, well trained, well fed, splashed after him, almost on him ~ a matter of seconds now and the duck would be ~
     A dead duck.
     “Fuck” ~
     Said Road out loud as he watched the duck quack stupidly and paddle sloppily, in panic and too late, trying to out swim the big-dog jaws of death closing in over him.
     “No reward,” said Road out loud to himself and thought about getting a job, as he watched ~
     The duck took to the air and left the big black dog floundering in the lake.
     The duck flapped his wet dripping and flashing white wings, defying all the laws of clipped-wing flight (mainly ’cause he’d got lost in a bush the day the wing clippers came by with their scissors).  He swooped thru the air past Road’s nose.  And he practically knocked Road over with a screeching knock out squawk that not vaguely sounded like, “Fuck ’em all!”
     And the duck flew yonder, disappeared over the trees.
     Road thought about that cry ~ the cry of a wild goose for sure.  Fuckin’ duck.  Yeah, Road thought about it.  Fuck ’em all!
     Who needed a reward?
     Road stepped with a sharp little bounce back into the doorless cab of his ’56 Chevy ex-milk truck.
~
free read

Road’s Cannon

1973
~