Mile Marker Zion

[stilltrucking]

I am on the last cup of the pot I brewed at six am cdt

Leaf blowers outside my windows the last hour shatter thoughts

They say nothing travels faster than speed of light except bad news. I never knew he let jessie go, I always imagined she was with him till he died. Maybe she let him go? They let each other go?
Waylon wrote a lot of his own songs but he also did a lot of Billy Joe Shaver covers.

"I would turn and walk away from you just because you asked me to"

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He probably died of a broken heart.
I don't know what keeps my heart going. I seem to thrive on broken hearts...Sometimes the only things that keeps me going are coffee, motor cycles and the hope I will live long enough to have my heart broken again by a woman.

Got to get out of here
take a ride on my bike
the closest thing I got to a firm feeling woman.


Blobs, I was seventeen the summer me and my true love saw that movie at the drive in tripple feature show.

My mother was the only one who ever called up a girl friend's mother at three am demanding to know where her son was.

And all our friends said oh la la.

I always liked that uncanny feeling in the fog of semiconsciousness when the familiar becomes strange, forms shift shapes in the shadows.

[the mingo]

The way I hear it is the Indians followed the animal trails and improved upon them in getting from place to place then we followed the Indian trails & improved upon them knowing a good thing when we saw it.

Bonnie & Clyde were machine gunned & shotgunned on the road.
How many Indians do you think saw the movie?

V-8's. Powerful hungry motors. With them America was conquered all over again. Clyde Barrow thought so much of his that he wrote to Henry Ford a letter praising the virtue of their power & speed.

Bonnie never had any children.

She was a creature of speed and the road.

By her time all the Indians had been made presentable by ethnic cleansing.

The road has seen it all.

John F. Kennedy Highway. Kerouac Circle.

[the mingo]

A Past Tense Love Affair

we twinkled
then we coughed

[the mingo]

It's hard to say where you are when you don't know where you are coming from or where you are going. Sure, death is somewhere up ahead for everyone but is it a destination? Maybe it's just a border crossing or a small business with clean restrooms. Hot coffee. Blue or overcast skies. Maybe you walk out the door there and get back in your car. Refreshed. Ready for more road.

[the mingo]

Maybe Kerouac was right to end up alcoholic in his mother's house. What more was there for him to do ? These bastards always go tragic or with a whimper or become cartoons. They never have good deaths.

Annie Oakley died from pernicious anemia. Her husband quit eating & died 18 days later. It was a good death. Together forever.

[stilltrucking]

Maybe you walk out the door there and get back in your car. Refreshed. Ready for more road.

Maybe so. Let's hang out here as long as we can and then we will see each other down the road a ways.

. Going to miss you when I go mingo.
I think to have a good death it takes a good life.

I like the Navajo concept of the chindi. Only young children and the old who have lived a long good life do not leave a chindi when they die.



Kerouac died a good Catholic

Just before his marriage to Stella, Jack had visited Mary Carney, who was now married for a second time. Her daughter Judy, then twenty-one, remembers the morning clearly. ' My mother was hanging clothes out on the line in the back, and he asked her to marry him and she said, "No. You've never stopped drinking." He said, "You'll never see me again. I'm gonna leave here and I'm gonna drink myself to death." And he did. She always felt guilty about that.' According to Gregory Corso, 'Because he was a catholic, he didn't want to commit suicide, but he wanted out.'

http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtop ... ed+hipster

Timothy Leary never had a bum trip until he tripped with Kerouac

In January 1961, Jack was given psilocybin by Dr Timothy Leary, who was at that time a Harvard professor and was carrying out research into psychedelic drugs. He was particularly interested in the effect the drugs had on artists. He had already enlisted the help of painters Wilhelm de Kooning, and Franz Kline, and the jazz musicians Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonius Monk.

The experiment took place at Ginsberg’s apartment. During the trip Jack was shouting to Leary: ‘Can your drugs absolve the mortal and venial sins which our beloved Saviour Jesus Christ, the only Son of God came down and sacrificed his life upon the cross to wash away? Leary, who was also raised as a Roman Catholic, experienced his first bad trip that day.

One of my most love Sunday Streams by Cecil

spiral of spirit

[stilltrucking]

moron chindi

According to Navajo tradition, when a person is born the principle of life—breath or "wind"—is put in the body by the Holy People. At death, the "wind" emerges from the spirals of the fingertips and becomes a chindi. Infants who die very young and the elderly who have lived a long and full life do not produce chindi. Interestingly, some infants who die very young are "buried" in trees.
http://www.hyattcarter.com/Death_or_.htm

Tony Hillerman died yesterday of heart failure in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Traditional Navajo belief says that when a person dies, all that is good about them goes away, leaving only their chindi, something that is similar to, but not quite, a ghost. So people would refrain from touching corpses as much as possible and from speaking the deceased's name for fear of attracting the chindi's attention. Hillerman had precious little about him that could form a chindi in the first place, and managed to defeat that belief by leaving behind such the gift of his writing. Rest in peace.
http://www.cogitamusblog.com/2008/10/to ... erman.html

[the mingo]

I think my brain is a chindi. I don't remember ordering it nor would I have requested the options it came with. I just wish it would cogitate on its own time instead of wasting mine. I quess you could say Timothy Leary had a few blind spots when it came to the choice of candidates for his experiments. Kerouac put a bustle in his bonnet for him. That could get really twisted having the Savior caught up & stuck right in the middle of your mind meld. Mindmelt on rye - hold the revelations!

The Timothy Leary Sandwich Emporium!
Best in the Roman Empire!

I think my brain is a chindi. It likes to wear Australian bush hats - the kind where part of the brim is folded up and snapped to the crown to hold it in place. It once placed me totally out of context within my own childhood. Then it whispered in my ear; "Rommel Drives On Deep Into Egypt... ...

Cleopatra's waiting on the beach ...

[stilltrucking]

Thinking about a book Constantine mentioned.

Brautigan left a hell of a suicide note.
He threw his brain in a hurricaine
with a forty five caliber slug
they did not find his body for days.
The note said

"Messy isn't it."

Nietzsche said the writer or artist is the manure from which his art grows.

Thinking I wish I read more of Brautigan and Kerouac's beautiful books and read less about the men who wrote them.

Mercy

Brain drain
on main st
three days of rain
come hell or high water
I got to ride my motorcycle today

A little traveling music

PLEASE DON'T BURY ME
John Prine


Woke up this morning
Put on my slippers
Walked in the kitchen and died
And oh what a feeling!
When my soul
Went thru the ceiling
And on up into heaven I did ride
When I got there they did say
John, it happened this way
You slipped upon the floor
And hit your head
And all the angels say
Just before you passed away
These were the very last words
That you said:


Chorus:
Please don't bury me
Down in that cold cold ground
No, I'd druther have "em" cut me up
And pass me all around
Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size
Give my stomach to Milwaukee
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just get "em" out of here
Venus de Milo can have my arms
Look out! I've got your nose
Sell my heart to the junkman
And give my love to Rose

[the mingo]

That sumbitch Prine can 'bout write a song now can't he?

[stilltrucking]

I wonder what LRod thinks of It Was Chirstmas In Prison

I always liked that song too.

Brautigan sure could write poetry.
may he rest in peace.

Trying to remember that line

something like

"How did it come to this?"

Did not ride get to today
But I got a good work out anyway
going head to toe with a computer
all day.
going to watch the end of that movie based on the novel by harlan ellison called a boy and his dog.
The ending is killer cool
Do you want me to ruin it for you?

[the mingo]

Ya can't ruin me on this one Jack, I read the story. Always liked Harlan Ellison and used to read anything by him I could get my hands on at a point in my life. A Boy & His Dog was a sweetheart of a write & I never forgot that last line.

[the mingo]

A pie continues to bake even after its removal from the oven. A woman told me this many years back. Her name was Josey - short for Josette. She had a scar that ran across her nose. I asked her about it. She said her first husband did it with a hunting knife. Her father was half French/half Mic-Mac Indian and when he found out about it he went to his son-in-law's door with a hatchet in one hand & a sawed off single shot .20 gauge in the other. He knocked on the door. When his son-in-law opened it he buried the hatchet up to the handle in his son-in-law's chest then blew his son-in-law's head off with the shotgun. The state troopers found her father at home later that day and took him away in handcuffs. He drew a 25 year sentence for 2nd degree murder & died in prison. Josey baked a pie for him once every two weeks for when she visited him there.
I had the most incredible case of the hots for Josey. I was thirteen.
Josey was just shy of five feet tall with a gentle voice & long dark hair that she wore swept up around her head. It was so unbelievable that without lifting a finger such a creature could incite such consummate violence in the men around her. I lived in awe of her always. She died while I was away in the service. Cancer took her. She is buried next to her father up in the mountains. She never talked about her mother. She never had any children. She liked the flower known around here as Indian Paintbrush. I used to bring them to her when I was a boy. She always smiled when she took them from my hands. I planted one on her grave a long time ago. Now there are many of them there from that one I planted. I smile when I see them growing there like that.

[stilltrucking]

Have you ever read something so beautiful it leaves you lost for words?

I am sitting here looking at this from Doreen's page eight story challenge.

"To mourn his brothers would be to admit an unspeakable pain, so he became an athlete who ran faster than any record ever made in the history of the school, faster than the tears.

The Woman Who Fell From The Sky
Joy Harjo

We will probably go to the cemetary this mother's day again. My baby sister has realized it is never too late to feel her mother's love.

[the mingo]

I know the feeling, Jack.