ACROSS THE PASTEL SKY

"Gonna storm? Or gonna clear? Hard to tell on this 7am morn', with the wind blowin' the way that it's doin', gees.. and the dogs all up and sounding the way they are, shit, there aint no tellin'!" So, I walk out on the back deck boards and stand and look west. Good ol' west, well, maybe north-west, where all that horrific weather usually will come from, and I wonder. My horse is clicking her heels and the sun just refuses to shine and I'd wish'd I'd put more fertilizer on the south pasture if it is going to rain and run the creeks the way that they say that it's going to."Oh, well." She's poured me a cup of coffee but I'm up my usual hour or so before her to feed the llamas and horse and I'm having a (breakfast beer). "Hell, it's the country! The country life. There's chores and lots of hard work' if you own a farm and a beer in the morning never, ever hurt anyone! There are the 'church-goers' out here and the rest of us. They are nothing but a pile of hypocrites! "Praise Jesus, yea!", I say. It has been in the mid-80's and the sky has been a dazzling blue; there has been the sound of the creek and sound of friends laughter; there has been the RED SOX beating the garbage-yankees on opening night 2010, and there has been a hike or two up (Hudlow's Ridge) with the warm southern winds blowing a good 30 or 40 miles per hour and the wheeling of eagles in the sky watching us as the 'fire-ring' has been built like a mountain man poem! So... rain, billowy, damp, puff of wind, storm brewing, walk across the turned field, the tractor tire leans against the tree, and NOBODY writes like I DO! Rimbaud, -my hero, Hemingway too, H. Miller, Kerouac, (And where is Jack tonight? -Eric Andersen), Scott Fitz, Blaise Cendrars, Emily Dickinson needing a MAN real bad, and Saint Luke -the only one of them with the balls to really write about the crucifixion. Huh? How's 'bout that? City boy? City girl? So the tide rolls in on the Cape Cod sands, the bluebird wings through the Missouri Ozarkian sky, the Volkswagen Beetle rusts in the pine trees of Colorado (mine), the girl is stretched out in bed waiting for a favorite Bob Dylan song, the dogs bark and sniff the earth as they run, the summer waits in line for the spring to finish her magic, and, "I sat beauty on my knee" -Rimbaud; I hear the tree frogs  sing their cute-throaty call at night in the darkness of my Cape Cod Rose Bud plant about to bloom near to my hurricane lamp. -Robert Scott Caldwell.  I hear the voice of America weeping -Walt Whitman. I made all the money I've made in my life, bought all this land, and never worked a day like the rest of them! -E.Hudlow. And so there is an epoch, a rainbow, a stormy morn'; become a sunny noon. There is the promise of all. And just, please, all of you, just get your asses out of this thing called the media and America and the rest of the jack-ass religious nuts (Muslim) and regain your composure and love your life and the nature that surrounds you. For there is a white-tailed fawn in the field, there is a Cardinal boy with his girlfriend building a special nest for eggs and babies, there is a puppy somewhere being born (right now) that is unloved and needs warmth, love, food and a roof over his head, and we cannot save all of the world but we can try! But, please, I ask, ignore the cynics... join the luster. 'Our lives our drunken boats. Grap a beer. Port side!'