To Dream

If there is an afterlife

Perchance a dream

How will I know

When sleep ends

And death begins

Some Dad Jokes

 

I had a blind date once…

I told her I was handsome.

She believed me.

 

I broke into a nunnery.

I searched all the nun’s closets.

All I could find was bad habits.

 

I had a duck that could exist in two places at the same time…

It was a pair-a-ducks.

 

(In English accent)

I asked this bird if she fancied a shag…

She told me she preferred hard wood.

 

There’s a streaming service for squirrels

It’s called NutFlix

 

An Apple store was robbed

The only person who saw what happened was an iWitness

 

How do you see the dark side of the moon?

You spread the cheeks…

 

Did you hear about the pop band that’s blowing up?

Its called Boys 2 Women…

 A teacher asked little Johnny to tell a story with a moral. He said "A horse and a chicken were playing, and the horse fell in a mud pit. The chicken got his BMW and a rope and pulled the horse out. A little while later, the chicken fell in the mud pit, and the horse straddled the mud pit and said grab my dick, and pulled the chicken out." 

The teacher says "Well that's an interesting story Johnny, but what is the moral?"" Johnny says "The moral is if you're hung like a horse, you don't need a Beemer to pull chicks." 

What's worse than two girls running with scissors? Two girls scissoring with runs.

English accent: "When I was a gull, I spent my days at the beach, but now I'm a turkey, and all I have to look forward to is getting roasted."

I watched that whole Arnold move waiting for the scene where he goes Commando...

What did the gay butler say to the cute caterer? "We have a back entrance for service providers".

Love

Me to her:

I had a waking dream.

In this dream I was approached by an angel

She told me things I never knew.

She showed me things I had never seen.

She taught me a passion I had never known.

I thought I never want to wake.

But I did.

She was still there, in my heart in my thoughts, and in my life.

Human and imperfect, but so much more powerful for that.

I know now that angels are those who touch your heart,

And show you the meaning of love.

Her to me:

He was a legend in her heart

with a smile fresh as rain

a soft flame from his eyes- and strength to wash away pain

he made her feel invincible. He made her into morning

he made her heart sing

ringing out soaring

she felt fully seen

As if she were dreaming

His glance made her glow

illuminating her soul

he sent a tremble through her body

as he painted her red

his love was engulfing

to his heart she was led

his touch made time stop

his words moved them forward

as he gently guided her towards him

desire burned with a diamond like fever

he made her heart into a believer 

Road Love

At 80

A la cafe'

Curves happen fast

And cars at 40

Are slalom gates.

Sunny afternoons

Are best

For riding country roads.

And after

Racing-heart racing

A warm beer

On a dusty roadside

Tastes better 

Than teenage kisses.

That Itch

 I scratched an itch

With a thorny rose

Because I thought

The pain of its cuts

Was less torment

Than the ithch.

Hunting Ness

 I see myself diversity,

A changing half-rhymed tune,

But---

It's beyond the glass I want to see

The author of mental runes,

The poet, the lover, the pest,

The thing that makes me me.

It shields with pride

And parries with jest;

And dodges 'hind plastic roles--

It's hard to hunt

In this attic mess,

But someday I'll capture

My elusive self-ness.

Hero

Rather thrust at winds

And paper dragons

Than parry with 

Gossamer butterflies?

Then meet in mass

with he in the glass,

And smite the stone

To bare it's fleshy core;

A man with himself must first do battle,

Then dragons

Shall be butterflies

Evermore.

Dark Brothr

 

Somwhar softly silnt

Somewhar dim n fer

Agin th nytide stryvn

Lay loss my dark brothr.

B’yon al majik cant

Odr lojiks mity hold

B’for th Divil’s shaid

Be he, so fool, so bold.

But n th darksn nyte

Ina quiknd dreme

He whysprs “O lyt n Dark?

Th rivrs ar one streme.”

Graveyard Lilacs

In a drawer corner

Lay an image

Which I drew from its rest

My fingers pushed dust from the frame

And I looked deeply, 

Remembering the taste of her mouth

And the smell of her hair.

I pressed my lips to the glass

But felt only times hard edge.

A chill wind blew through me

Scattering dust and leaves

And the sweet fragrance 

Of Graveyard lilacs. 

Charlie

When I met her, I felt that there must be something wrong with the Universe, that this lovely person was interested in me. We met at the Tool Shed. We hit it off right away. She got my dad jokes, and even came up with the perfect response. We talked about everything, even porn. I gave her the link to my blog, where I had recently posted a short story.

The next Saturday, I was at the Tool Shed, and I saw her there. She walked up to me and said that this was the first time she had ever been a stalker. She said that she had come there to find me. She came up to me and told me how she had stayed up reading my story. She was charming and, again, I wondered why this beautiful person would be interested in me.

After many years and relationships, most of which were challenging, I had given up on the “one”.  Sure, I had been in love, and had done everything in my power to have a lasting relationship, but this eluded me. My kids were almost grown, and my ex-wife was OK, so I thought to reinvent myself. I let my hair grow a little, bought a motorcycle, and went back to my love of writing. I have had lots of ideas for short stories, books, and screen plays for a long time, but I was too busy being a dad to do much with it. So I started writing and posted a short story on my blog. Now that crazy story I wrote seems to have brought this enigmatic siren to me.  She told me how she had stayed up reading it. How she couldn’t stop reading.

She texted me and asked to hang out. I offered to make dinner, and she came over. We had so much fun sharing crazy ideas; I thought to myself that she was something really unique and special. After dinner, our conversation drifted into past relationships.  She had a series of bad relationships. The last was with a man who used her for sex, but wouldn’t even kiss her. Charlie was beautiful, smart, witty, and sexy as hell. Still, she couldn’t see herself as desirable. She left without any intimacy, even though we had both expressed interest.

After she left, she sent texts apologizing, and I replied that it was no problem, it was just life. In the next few days we stayed in touch. I was continually amazed at this person. She was sweet, self-deprecating, and really smart, despite her Mormon upbringing. I was captivated. How could I possibly have this woman in my life?

The next week, I had her over again. We agreed on some rules: first, no talking about exes before sex. Second, we are awesome! I know it sounds silly, but it worked. We both found something we were looking for.

What I did not realize is that she was not an accident. Rather, she was there for a reason. My story was crazy, and full of conspiracy theories, and I really didn’t expect anyone to get it. But Charlie did. I started to think that she was there because of my crazy story. Maybe it wasn’t so crazy after all.

As we spent more time together, we developed this kind of alternate story of us. I was a “refurbished” operative, and she had been tasked to keep an eye on me. They knew that she was perfect for me, being smart, vivacious, and sexy. I couldn’t resist her. She had been an operative or at least a subject of mind control experiments just as I had. She had been brought up Mormon, and anyone who knows the history of the CIA knows that Mormons were prime targets for recruitment because they have discipline. But more than that, the missions that young Mormons go on are a perfect cover for covert missions. There is a joke that CIA stands for Christians in Action, because so many Mormons were recruited.

Still, it seemed like my crazy story. I didn’t really believe what I had written, but somehow meeting Charlie seemed to make it a little more real. The first time that I really started to believe that my crazy story was not so crazy is when she asked me to listen to the audio book of Theodore Kozinski’s manifesto. I have an open mind, and am not one to judge, so I listened to some three and a half hours of what in some ways made perfect sense, and in others, was total anarchy. His basic idea was that technology was evil, and people would be better off living without it. Considering the damage that social media has done to young people, I had to admit that there was some truth to what most people would consider the ravings of a madman.

I had never met anyone who had such different interests. My interests have always been history, politics, and writing. I am a bit of a conspiracy theorist, but I have always been a skeptic. But Charlie was showing me a different side of history.

Next, she asked me to watch the movie I Heart Huckabees. This is a really strange movie where existential detectives help people with their problems. This was, again, something that I could relate to, but was totally outside of my experience. Charlie is much younger than me, and normally, I would know pretty much anything that anyone would talk about, with the exception of some types of music, or culture, but these things resonated with me, and I had never encountered them.

Next, she asked me to listen to the Art of Seduction by Robert Greene. At first, I was kind of put off by it because it referred to the subject of seduction as the “victim”. But, again, having an open mind, I saw real value in the information there.

We continued to joke about us being the products of government experiments, that I was a refurbished (memory wiped) operative, and that she was there to keep me from writing more. We joked that even though she encouraged me to write more, she was occupying my time so effectively that I couldn’t.

If in fact, she was tasked to me, they couldn’t have found a better personality. I have a bit of a hero complex, and she was someone that triggered that in me. I fell in love in a matter of days, and despite some rocky points, I couldn’t stop feeling that way about her.

At the Tool Shed, there is an interesting person named Dick. He is a retired psychoanalyst, and had made a point of interacting with me. We had very complex and interesting conversations, and his recommendation was that I had a lot to give, and that I should teach college classes. I explained that doing that was not really realistic, but thanked him just the same. Dick is kind of odd in as much as he says that he doesn’t have a working computer, and does not know how to use his phone, but he excels in things like chess and darts. I began to wonder if there was more to Dick than was apparent.

So, when I telling Charlie about my crazy idea of being a refurbished operative, I joked that Dick was Charlie’s handler and that he was responsible for having her assigned to me. Instead of saying that was crazy, she said that of course he was. It is a joke of spy tradecraft that you say you are a spy so that people don’t believe it. By making a joke of it, people will discount any evidence as just part of the joke. I mentioned this to Charlie, and she said that she wasn’t really CIA, but FBI. This struck me as that tradecraft exactly.

With this as background, I believe that Charlie actually bonded with me. Maybe it was the story, maybe it was because she recognized me as someone that she needed in her life, but I don’t think she was supposed to have real feelings for me. This caused a crisis for her because she did not want to carry on the pretense. She would be sweet and loving, then become angry for reasons I could not understand. In retrospect, I understand the conflict that she was dealing with, but at that point, I didn’t really believe that our story was anything more than something fun.

 

Charlie liked to name people we met at the Tool Shed celebrity names based upon how they looked. One person she called Jude Law. He is a remarkably social person that everyone likes. But there was one odd thing about him. He brought a chess set to the Tool Shed, and beat me twice. I rarely lose at chess, and was surprised at the approach to the game he used. He did not follow normal tactics, but played the game in a very unorthodox way. When I saw him beat Dick, who rarely engages in something he can’t win, I wondered if there was something I was missing.

His name is really Donald, and I made a point of remembering that, even though Jude Law was easier. It struck me that Charlie used this method to remember people. I didn’t think much of that at the time, but I thought it was an interesting way to remember someone. Little did I know that he would be an important character in the story as it developed.

Then Charlie came to me and said that she was in crisis. Her brother, who has traveled to China and Africa, and who has a life that most people would envy, was talking about suicide. I thought to myself, why would someone so cool, so attractive, and so together consider that. Then, it occurred to me that maybe he was one of us. Those trips abroad had actually been missions, but because of the government mind control, he was broken and not able to appreciate how cool his life was.

Still, I could not accept this alternate reality. More and more evidence was there, but it seemed too bizarre. I had written that story for fun, but I was starting to question my reality.

Then we were invited to a house party. I had not been to a party like this for years, and I felt privileged to be invited. The people there were mostly from the Tool Shed, and many of them I knew, at least to say hi.

The Tool Shed is an odd kind of bar. Unlike most bars, there are people who are barely making it, and people who are very successful. Many have behavior issues, but, as I like to say, it is a free behavior zone, where if you don’t cause trouble, you can do lots of things that are against the rules. I have often wondered why the police never show up unless they are called. I have joked that the owner has a deal with the cops. Little did I know that it was more complicated than that.

At the house party, there were all kinds of crazy things going on, but nothing really unexpected for party animals. But, I noticed, there, as I had at the Shed, that there were private conversations going on. I like to interject myself into conversations, but these were very private. What I could hear of them sounded like ordinary stuff, but I began to wonder because of how they were separate and private.

Then I heard one person talking about Charlie, about how she was blowing her cover and her mission. I tried to ask, but when I walked up, the conversation changed. Could these people also be in on this conspiracy? No, that was just crazy.

Things were OK with Charlie for a while. Sure we had challenges, but we really had a connection. But there was something that troubled her, and I couldn’t really get her to talk about it. Then she told me that it wasn’t a crazy story. She told me that our joke was real. She told me that she might be reassigned to Missouri. I told her that I didn’t want her to go, and that I would do anything to keep her here.

We agreed, without ever admitting the truth, that we would make it work. I understood that the chances of it working were very small, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her. I agreed to stop writing the crazy conspiracy stories, and she said that she would try. It wasn’t perfect, but it was still the best thing I had ever experienced.

When Charlie and I made love it was better than anything I had ever had. I joked to her that when I caught my daughter watching porn I had told her that sex was not like that, but with Charlie it really was. I am not particularly big, but I bottomed out. I felt something there, and Charlie said it was her IUD. She joked that it was really her “instant urgent device” and that it would notify the CIA that her cover was blown and she would be extracted. I thought that was clever, and didn’t think much more about it. It would become important later.

Everything changed when some alt right podcaster discovered my blog. He had all kinds of supporting evidence, and wanted me to go on his podcast. I declined, but that set in motion a series of events. The first thing that happened was a visit from the FBI. They said they were investigating me for being a domestic terrorist. Next, the IRS decided to audit me. I have not paid taxes properly because I simply couldn’t afford it, but the strange thing was they were not really interested in my finances, rather they asked all kinds of really odd questions, like had I traveled to Russia, or China.

At this point, I realized that maybe my crazy story was not so crazy. I confronted Charlie, and she admitted that the joke was not a joke. I asked her what we could do. She said that she did not know, that she had been a prisoner of her past all her life. I decided that I would not accept that, and began to plan.

I have always been a contingency planner. I plan for things that I never expect to happen. I suspect it is a result of my training, but it has always been a natural thing for me to do. I did not have enough cash to disappear, but I had things of value that I had inherited. I put them up for sale on eBay. I was surprised at the  value of those things, and I managed to not only divest myself of things that I could not travel with, but made enough to make a plan.

When I told Charlie about what I had done, she was afraid. She said that there was no way we could escape the CIA. I said it was time to remove the IUD and leave it at the Shed. That would give us a little time. Charlie reluctantly agreed and after buying a speculum on Amazon, I removed it for her.

The next part was the hardest. I had to leave my friends and family. I had to find a place where we could go. That last was easy, because the Mexican border was so close, and Mexican authorities are easily bought. We packed my Camry and my Odyssey, leaving Charlie’s car in the parking lot of the post office. She drove the van, and I drove my Camry. We took separate routs to the border, and made it to Rosarito in a couple of hours.

 

I did not have a plan beyond that, but we had enough money to survive for a while. Charlie found work caring for expatriates’ pets and I found work welding. It was not a fancy life, but we were free and in love.

Dad

 

It started in a way that no one would notice. Or, at not least most people. For some reason, I was a little more observant than others. Still, it was hardly remarkable. A man at the grocery store seemed to be shopping for the same items, or at least, was in the same aisles. I noticed, but didn’t think much of it at first, but when the man showed up in the same checkout line, I thought it was odd. When the man followed me in his car, I realized that there was something going on. I watched the car in my rearview mirror and decided not to drive directly home. Instead, I pulled into the parking lot of the post office, and noticed that the car also pulled in. Thinking there was a problem, I got out and approached the car, but as soon as I did, the car drove away.

In the following days, I noticed other cars that seemed to be following me. I thought that I was just imagining things. But after a few days, I noticed that one of the same four or five cars were behind me whenever I left my house. I didn’t say anything to my daughters or friends; after all, it seemed like some kind of paranoia. But, I kept watch, and the following cars were always there.

I lived an ordinary life, divorced with two young daughters, with half custody. I worked from home as a computer consultant, which allowed me the freedom to spend time with my kids, help them with homework, pick them up from school, and all those things that a dad is supposed to do. Since the divorce, I had put my kids first, and did not have much of a social life. Sure, I did try dating at first, but most women were not interested in a man who made his kids a priority. So, I worked, spent time with my kids, and very little else.

Before I got married, I had lived a different life. I lived a life of parties, women and excess. It had not turned out well, and so I had decided that an ordinary life in an ordinary house, in an ordinary neighborhood was the best way to be happy. So, I married a school teacher and had a family. For a while that was my life, and I was very happy, until my wife had a psychotic episode, which destroyed my marriage.

When I was in my twenties, I did every kind of dangerous thing I could. I really did not expect to live to thirty. Memories of that time were imperfect at best, and some memories seemed really strange. Things like breaking into houses, and climbing walls into strange facilities. Still, there were a lot of drugs and alcohol in those days, and I chalked it up to the lifestyle. All that was behind me now, and I really didn’t think about it anymore.

After several weeks of seeing cars seeming to follow me, I decided to do something. I drove around the block at speed and came up behind one of the cars that seemed to be following. Doing this seemed like a natural thing to do, somehow, and now that I was behind this car, I stayed back and watched, making sure not to be seen. The car drove back past my house, stopped for a couple of minutes, then drove off. I followed. The car went to an industrial park some ten miles away, and stopped in front of a unit with no sign. The driver got out and went inside. I made a note of the address and the license plate of the car. After a while, I needed to pick up my kids, so I left.

When I got home, and got my kids fed and working on homework, I decided to do a little research. There are resources that most people don’t know about, but as a tech guy I knew how to find information that most people could not. I discovered that the industrial unit was rented by a company registered offshore, and that there was no record for the license plate. How odd. Why would these people have any interest in an ordinary guy like me?

Over the next several days, I began to evade the tails. Slowing at an intersection, then speeding through a light just turned red. Changing lanes abruptly and making a U-turn. Taking different ways around to the usual destinations, I changed my habits to make it difficult for the tails. The cars became more and more obvious in their attempts to follow me, and I often lost them, even though they were becoming bolder in their efforts to follow.

On some weekends, when my daughters were with their mom, I would go to a local bar called the Dog House. It was a friendly place, with all different ages, ethnicities, and socioeconomic classes. I found that I could talk to virtually anyone there and have an interesting and rewarding conversation. One Friday night, I noticed one of the cars that had been following me parked in the lot. I knew many of the regulars, but there were always lots of new customers at the Dog House, so it was virtually impossible to tell who it was. I began by talking to people who I had not seen in the past. Most responded in the usual friendly way. I asked them about what they did for a living, if they had been to the Dog House before, and met several nice people. Then I encountered a forty-something guy in the back where smokers could have a cigarette.  

I know lots of “dad jokes” and I began by telling some. I noticed that this one person seemed uncomfortable and would not make eye contact. I went up to him and said “Hi, I’m Dave. It’s easy to remember me. If the cops ask, just say, Dave’s not here”. This got a laugh from others at the table, but this person didn’t seem amused. I said, “So, what’s your name?” The man said “John”. I asked “So, what do you do, John?” He said that he really didn’t do anything. I thought this was a little odd, since this question usually resulted in an interesting conversation. John said that it was time for him to go, and he walked out to his car. It was getting late, so I decided to go home. On the way, I noticed that car behind me. Rather than losing him, I tried a different tactic. I waited until the car was close behind, coming up to an intersection with a red light. I braked suddenly, and the car was unable to stop in time, and rear ended my car. I got out and approached the other car. John got out and began to complain that I had brake checked him, but I instead demanded to know why I was being followed. At first, John denied it, but when I mentioned that the car’s license plate was not a valid plate, John changed his approach. He said “You have done so much damage. We know everything. You won’t get away with it”. With that, John got in his car and drove off. I was confused. What had just happened? What did he mean by damage?

In the next couple of weeks, I noticed that the tails seemed to disappear. Still, I was worried about what had happened. I had a box in my garage with things from my past. I got it out and started looking through it. Some things were from my father and others were from my days as a party animal. In particular was a photo album I had not looked at for many years. I started looking through all those photos of parties and people. In the background of one taken at a house party, I saw someone who looked like a younger John. I had no memory of who this person was, in fact, I could not remember most of the people in the pictures. At the time, my girlfriend and business partner was a woman who had a remarkable ability to influence people, myself included. She managed to get invited to house parties with wealthy people, and I was always in the background watching her schmooze and enchant. Was this John someone from that time? Or was there something more going on. Looking at the pictures, I began to remember some details. But nothing seemed like it would cause anyone to be following me now. I looked further back, at photos from my twenties. There were very few during this time. Odd, since photography had been a hobby since I was only ten. But there were a few. I thought back and tried to remember what had happened at that time, but had very few clear memories.

My father had been Army counter intelligence after world war two, and had served in Germany, deciding which people could come to the United States. After that, he worked for the Atomic Energy Commission, and was there for the Eniwetok test, the first hydrogen bomb. He was exposed to radiation at that test, which ultimately contributed to his death.

After working for the AEC, Doug, as my dad was known, went to work for a series of military contractors. He was a systems analyst. Everywhere he went, people lost their jobs. I came to the conclusion that my father was a Communist hunter, and was put in those jobs to get rid of people who had questionable associations. When I was 18, my father, suffering from the long term effects of radiation exposure, and with only weeks to live, shot himself with a pistol. I found the body and was suddenly thrust into the role of an adult. I called the police, and explained that they should call the coroner, that no ambulance was needed. Once they had taken the body away, I washed the congealed blood down the driveway with the hose. On that day, everything changed. There was no longer any parental control. My mom was lost in grief, my sister was in Oregon, and no other family was around to provide guidance. So I proceeded to do everything that I had been told was wrong.

I experimented with drugs, chased women, and went to the most dangerous places I could find. Maybe I had a death wish. During this time, I met a group that practiced Tae Kwan Do, and did angel dust. Kind of an odd combination, but I was up for anything. I did LSD, weed, methamphetamine, and by accident once snorted some Heroin. One can understand why my memories of this time were a little blurred.

This was the time that I wondered about. Had I been involved with people who now were following me? It seemed unlikely, but what other explanation was there? Well, it seemed that the people who had been following me weren’t anymore, so I went back to work and taking care of my daughters.

It was on a Tuesday. It seemed to me that it was odd that it happened on a Tuesday. I was at the spray car wash, and two men approached me. They said nothing, but they were armed with steel pipes. They attacked me with what seemed like intent to commit murder. I had the strangest reaction. Rather than feel fear, or try to escape, I attacked these two men and disarmed them and rendered them unconscious. It was like a dream. It seemed so natural to do this, and it was as if I had done it many times before. I considered calling the police, but could see that the men were not severely injured, and decided to leave them. That seemed like the right thing to do also. No one at the car wash had noticed this very sudden altercation, and I just drove off. After arriving home, I realized what had happened. I had taken out two men who seemed intent on killing me. I had done it with little effort. It had seemed like the most natural thing to do. I began to wonder if my kids were safe, and if in fact my whole life was about to change.

The next day, I arranged for my kids to spend some extra time with their mom. I didn’t want them in harm’s way, although I felt sure that short of moving them to another state, they still could be in danger. But how do you tell your ex who already has had issues with paranoia that people are out to kill you and the kids are not safe. I decided to just see what happened next. I would cross that bridge if I had to. But I did make some preparations. I had inherited some guns from my uncle, which were kept in a safe. I had not even fired them for years, but now I took them out, cleaned and serviced them and loaded them. I placed them in different locations in my house, so that I could have them available if needed. I bought a camera for the front door and a few more for the area around my house. These were low light cameras with an app that would send an alert if triggered by motion. I checked my car for tracking devices, but found none. Then I waited. I went to the grocery store, the gas station and other places to keep up a normal routine, but was always ready for the unexpected.

On Friday, it happened. At two am, I awoke to the sound of my front door being smashed in. I grabbed my gun and stepped into the walk in closet. I had put a steel plate on the wall there for this eventuality. At first, I thought it might be a swat team, but there were no calls of “police”. They were there for me, and they meant to kill me.

I knew that shooters will aim for center mass. If they can’t see their target, they will aim at that height anyway. I dropped to the floor and peered out past the closet door. There were three men, wearing body armor and masks. They had assault rifles, and ballistic shields. They looked like a swat team, but I knew they were not. I waited. They entered each room down the hallway, until they came to the master bedroom where I was hiding. They entered and did not see me, and made a mistake. They turned away, exposing their heads, and I made three quick shots, hitting each in the head and killing them. In the moment, it seemed so easy, but afterward, I realized how difficult it was to make shots like that.

Now, I had a problem. There were three dead men in my house, and I could not explain how they came to be there. If the police came, I would be caught in an investigation, and not be able to make sure my kids were safe. I grabbed an assault rifle, a shot gun, a .45, and a .380, and a couple boxes of ammunition. It was all I could carry. I got in my car, and drove to my ex-wife’s house. I banged on the door and when she answered, I said that the kids were coming with me. She saw the gun in my hand and let them go, but immediately called the police. I expected that, but I didn’t have a choice. It was time to move and my options were limited.

I kept a bugout bag in the trunk of my car with, among other things, $5000 in cash. I never thought it an odd practice in the past, just something that I did. Now I understood the usefulness of having it. I also had a burner phone in the bag, and stopped to leave my phone hidden in the restroom of a 7-11. I had used the burner phone to find an available motel that was at least an hour away, and drove there. I got several bags of groceries, paid in cash, and rented the room the same way. Now, my kids were safe, at least for the short term. Now it was time to find out what the hell was going on.

On the way back to my house, I stopped and stole license plates from a car of the same make and model. I drove a Camry, so it was easy to find plates to swap. If the police had been alerted, at least I would not be driving into a problem. As I drove into my neighborhood, I expected to see police. Even though the shots had been fired inside, guns are loud, and neighbors were likely to report it. Instead, I saw something I didn’t expect. There was a carpet cleaning company van, with hoses snaking into the front door. It was still pretty early, about 6 am, but not so early as to cause any comment. I wondered at the organization needed to put together a response like this so quickly. I sat and watched. After about ten minutes, a black sedan pulled up. Two men wearing suits got out and talked to the other men working. Then they left. I decided to follow. They drove to the local airfield, and boarded a corporate jet. I made a note of the N number. It’s pretty hard to fake those, although I knew some government agencies could. With nothing else to learn, I drove to the local library, which would open in an hour or so. When it did, I went in and used one of the public computers to see if I could find who owned the jet. When I found it, I was surprised. It belonged to a tech company that was known for providing cloud services to the federal government. A CIA front? Maybe. At any rate, it was a lead, and I started searching for people associated with the company. There was the usual list of DC lawyers, Ivy League egg heads, and politicians, but nothing really seemed to indicate any association with anything he suspected was intelligence related, or could explain what was happening. Well, it was time to check on my kids. They would be awake soon, and he would need to email their school with a story about the flu or some such, as well as try to explain to them why he had taken them in the middle of the night.

At the motel, I arrived with some doughnuts. Normally I would never feed my kids this for breakfast, but this was an unusual situation. They were delighted to have them, but soon were asking what was happening. I told them that I really didn’t know, but that men had tried to kill me and I needed to make sure they were safe. Most middle school kids would not take this kind of story well, but my daughters had been brought up on spy stories and mysteries. Instead of being afraid, they were excited. They wanted to help, but I told them that it was not the time, but that they should be ready to go at a moment’s notice, and do everything exactly as they were told. They agreed then asked if they could watch pay per view. I told them I would arrange it, but not to watch anything “too adult”.

I knew that I needed sleep, so he told the girls that I was going to take a nap, and if anyone knocked on the door, not to open it, but to awaken me straight away. I went and lay down for a few minutes and fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed. I was younger, and with a group of other young people, both men and women. They were training. Firearms, martial arts, even things like parkour. I was climbing a building in the dark, and going in through a window. Inside, I killed several people. Then I was on an aircraft, wearing a parachute. The back ramp opened and I and several others jumped from the ramp. I awoke not feeling refreshed at all. The dream was very disturbing. I had never done these things, but they seemed so real. There was something, but I couldn’t figure exactly what it was. Maybe it had something to do with what was happening now. I couldn’t be sure, but the dream seemed more like a memory. I had to find out what was happening, if for no other reason to protect my kids.

There was one thing in the dream that seemed familiar, though. It was a building I had seen in San Diego, which was only twenty minutes away. It was an unmarked building downtown that I had assumed was a bank or some such, but after considering it, I realized that it had no windows at all, very unusual for any kind of office building. I decided to take a little drive.

Downton San Diego is like many middle sized cities that are next to water. The climate is nearly perfect, and it is a tourist destination. Because of that, there are many hotels, bars, and restaurants. Sea World is nearby, as well as the Navy Base. There are banking offices, federal offices, like the Social Security Administration, and other less obvious offices. Still, the building I was about to check out was noticeably different. It looked a bit like a jail, or even a fortress, but there were no signs or other indications of its purpose. I parked in a downtown garage and walked the few blocks to the building.

Across the street was a small coffee shop, and I went in to have a latte and watch. Often people from nearby office buildings would frequent a place like this, and it also provided a good vantage point of the entrance. The people entering and leaving the building looked like bankers and lawyers, exactly what you would expect, but upon closer examination, most seemed to be between twenty and thirty, and very fit. None were slender or overweight, and they all had a military bearing. One of these men came into the coffee shop and ordered a black coffee. I could see him using the glass behind the counter to surveil the room in reflection. This was not an ordinary office worker. When he turned, I got a glimpse of a gun in a shoulder holster. The man walked across the street and entered the building.

San Diego has many fine stores, and I found one that sold men’s suits. It was just a few blocks away, and I walked to it and found one that fit and did not really need alteration. They had some dress shoes also, and I bought an outfit that matched the ones I saw people entering that building as best as possible. I changed in the dressing room, and left my jeans and t-shirt there. I paid in cash, and walked back to the coffee shop. Now to watch for someone that looked as much like me as possible. It wasn’t too long when the perfect person came walking out of the building. He was a little older, like me, and wearing the same kind of black suit and similar patterned tie. I followed. The man walked to a nearby parking garage and was about to start his car when I knocked on his window. “Excuse me, is this your wallet?” The man rolled down his window and I grabbed him by the throat applying pressure to the carotid arteries until the man became unconscious. I quickly opened the door, got the keys and the man’s identification, then put him in the trunk of the car. The man would be out for at least twenty minutes, and that’s all I needed. I locked the car and looked at the ID. Marcus Johnson. That’s easy to remember. I walked back to the building and went in the front door. As expected, there was a security station, and I flashed his ID, with no problems. I went to the elevator bank and looked at the sign. Bahamian Security, the same offshore company that the jet was registered to. Ninth floor. I pushed the button. When the elevator doors opened on the ninth floor, I had the strongest feeling of Déjà vu. I had been here before. None of the people seemed familiar, but the office was definitely familiar. I walked to what looked like reception and said to the woman working there “I’m here to see the director”. She looked confused, and said that she did not know of any appointments scheduled for him. I said “This is a matter of some urgency. Please let him know that he needs to see me.” She said “And who shall I say needs to see him?” I said “I’m from Washington, and I don’t have time for niceties”. She said to follow her and they went along a corridor to a rather lavish office. She opened the door and said “Director, this man is from Washington and he demanded to see you”. The Director looked up and went pale. “What the hell are you doing here? You shouldn’t be anywhere near this facility.” I said “Do you recognize me”. The director said “Of course, we worked together back in the 80s. You’re older, but we keep track of everyone. But you should not even know about this facility. You were refurbished.” “Refurbished? What is that?” I asked. The Director said “It means that you had your memories cleaned, and you were put back into your life.” It was starting to make some sense now, but it didn’t explain why there were men trying to kill him. I said “Why would someone show up now and try to kill me if it has been since the 80s since I was active” The Director said “I haven’t a clue. How did you even find this facility, and how did you get in? You should have no memory of any of this.” I said “I had a dream after a team broke into my house and tried to kill me. What could possibly be so important after all these years?” The Director said “Surely you know that I can’t discuss any of that with you. If I did, my life would be over. You need to go before the response team arrives. If they get you, you will never see your kids again.”

With that, I left the office. First I went to  Marcus Johnson’s car and unlocked the trunk. He should be awake soon. Then, I walked back to my car thinking all the while that something that was happening now was somehow connected to my past. But what could it be? What was happening in the 80s? Disco, Central America, Reagan… That was at least 30 years ago. Many of the people that were in power then were dead. The more I thought about it, the more I felt I was falling down a rabbit hole of things I remembered, things I had read, and things I had heard. I really couldn’t seem to tell where one ended and another began. But I had another piece of the puzzle, and I had to check on my kids.

When I returned to the motel, the girls were watching Pulp Fiction. I had shown it to them already, and explained the adult parts, so it was not a problem. They especially liked the part at Jack Rabbit Slims where there was a dance contest. I told them that I had made a little progress, but had not fixed it yet. I told them that they were awesome for being brave and not complaining. Then I offered to take them to dinner. They both said they would rather have take out sushi and keep watching the movie. I arranged a delivery and went into the bedroom to take a nap. The last couple of days had been exhausting.

I dreamed again. This time, I was in a jungle. I was with a group of men dressed in camouflage. They were all heavily armed. There were military style trucks being loaded with drums, and behind what I realized was a cocaine processing installation. The men spoke English, amongst themselves, but Spanish to the people that were loading the trucks. I thought that the men were Americans from their speech and behavior. American soldiers. Why would American soldiers be taking trucks of cocaine out of the jungle? I felt that I was a part of this. In my dream, I directed them men to complete the loading because time was running out. “We have only minutes before an air strike will destroy this lab. We’ve got to go now.” The people from the lab were leaving now also, in Toyota trucks and motorcycles. I climbed aboard one of the trucks and then I awoke, sweating. I wondered if this could this be what they are after me about. There were lots of conspiracy theories out there about the CIA smuggling cocaine, and that didn’t seem like anything that would cause them to come after him now. I went out to find my girls asleep and ate the last bits of sushi.

The next morning, I went to the local library to do a little research. There was lots of stuff about the CIA and cocaine, and heroin from the Golden Triangle during Viet Nam, as well as some stuff about the government selling opium from Afghanistan to Europe and Russia. All of it was pretty typical, and had been around for a while, so it seemed unlikely that it had anything to do with what was happening now. Still, I felt that the dream in the jungle meant something. I thought back to the dream, and remembered a man that seemed to be important, who was not dressed the same as the others. I thought and tried to make a connection. I started looking up random military officers that had served in intelligence or in Washington but nothing seemed to match. Then, I looked at people who had been involved with charity organizations in Central America. Still nothing. Then, on a hunch, he looked at doctors who had served with Doctors Without Borders. And there, amongst hundreds of names and photos, I saw that man. Dr. William Mackenzie. A specialist in treating childhood diseases, with a degree also in Pharmacology.  What would a man like that be doing in a jungle with trucks of cocaine? I continued my search using some of the less known methods that could access government databases, and found something else. Dr. Mackenzie had worked for the Department of Defense in a classified project. There was nothing about the nature of the project, but it seemed like the best lead I had. The best part is that Dr. Mackenzie was living in La Jolla, just a few miles up the coast. I decided to pay him a visit.

After buying the girls a new Wii console, a dozen games and hooking it up with the motel TV, I set off to La Jolla. An upscale town on the coast north of San Diego, it is the home to among other things the Salk Institute. Homes there are very pricey, so Dr. Mackenzie must have done well. When I got to the address, it was practically a mansion. There was a gated drive, with an intercom and camera by the gate. I pulled up to the camera and pushed the button. A voice said “Who’s there?” I answered “Dave”. Surprisingly, the gate opened, and I drove up to the house.

The man from my dream met me in the driveway. He was older, but recognizable. He said “Well, Dave, I never expected to see you again.” I went through the large doors into an entryway furnished with marble, then followed Dr. Mackenzie into a wood paneled study. “You do remember me, don’t you” he said. I replied “Not really. I saw you in a dream and searched until I found you.” The doctor said “Well, what could be so important that you would go to such trouble?” I said “A group of men tried to kill me. Then I started having dreams. You were in one of them. It was in the jungle, and we were transporting cocaine.” The doctor sat down. “You should have no memory of that. You were on the list of subjects for refurbishing. It had been years since I had seen you, but I recognized your name.” I asked “What do you mean exactly by refurbishing?” The doctor moved some papers around on his desk while he considered his response. “There was a time when we were doing things that were not just illegal, but could be considered treasonous. At the time, I did not know the details, but later I learned some of it. Things like false flag operations to convince the people that they had to give up freedoms. Things that cost lives. You were a part of that, but for various reasons, could not be killed. Something to do with documents that would be released in the case of any unnatural death.” The doctor paused.  I was a part of a program to develop drugs and methods to erase people’s memory. It really started back in the 50s, and was exposed in part as MK Ultra. Supposedly it was shut down, but as I am sure you realize, the government never shuts down something it wants, it just rebrands it and moves it to a different department. We had a number of people who could not be eliminated, but also could not be relied on to keep quiet. So, we cleansed their minds. We erased problematic memories, and replaced them with memories that were odd or uncomfortable, so the subjects would prefer not to remember.” The doctor stood up. “It has worked well until now. The question is why you remembered. It would take a trauma or some significant event to bring those memories out.” I said “I was attacked in my home. I have kids, and they are very important to me. I need to find out who is behind this to keep my kids safe. What can you tell me about anything that might be important enough for someone to risk exposure and kill me.” The doctor said “I really don’t know. It has been years since I worked with those agencies. Now I am a therapist for bored housewives.”

It wasn’t the answer I needed, but it was another piece of the puzzle. I racked my brain. What could be going on now that could cause them to come after me. I thought about the news I read. There were plenty of things that conspiracy theorists were talking about in the news, but none that he had anything to do with. I didn’t post on social media, never offered my opinion about politics to anyone, and generally didn’t engage with anyone who could present a problem. After all, I had kids, and I didn’t want to do anything that would cause them problems.

OK, there’s the thing about Corona virus coming from a lab in China. That would be enough to kill someone who had proof, but I had nothing. Then there’s the whole thing about Russia and Trump, But again, I had nothing to do with that. I never even wore my MAGA hat. Well before that there was 9-11. Where was I during 9-11? I worked for the government doing database stuff. Pretty boring. Did I come across something in a government database that was sensitive? And, if so, where would I put the evidence. Who did I know back then I could trust. I had friends that I’d known for years that I could trust, but would I give them anything so dangerous? It seemed unlikely, especially since none of them would know what to do with it. Who else could be trusted with evidence of a mass conspiracy in the government? I couldn’t begin to imagine what the evidence might be, or who I would give it to. It was time to check on my kids.

When I got back to the motel, the girls were happy playing Rayman. They had cleared almost half the levels. I thought they were pretty impressive for learning the complex game so quickly. But it was time for bed, so I got them to turn it off and put pajamas on. They said “Good night Dad, we love you!” and I went to lie down. Again I dreamed. This time I was working at my government job. After years of doing really dull stuff, I had been tasked with integrating different databases so that different agencies could have faster access to more data. At the time, I thought that the system I was building could be used for much more than government data. It was robust enough to compare millions of records in seconds. I remembered thinking that it wouldn’t do to use this system on private records. Things people would want to keep secret would be easily discovered. But, there were laws about that, and I didn’t really think that the government could ever find an excuse to violate the constitution. It would take something catastrophic for people to agree to that kind of government oversight. Something like Pearl Harbor.

 

I didn’t usually read any of the materials in the database, most of it was classified, and despite the fact that I had a very high security clearance, most of it was pretty dull. Sometimes I might read a record to see if it matched the original record, but it was rare. But one time, there was something odd. This is where my memory seemed to be missing. But in the dream, I could remember. It was a requisition for thermal explosives with timers. Thousands of them, to be delivered to New York to a warehouse. Why would the CIA deliver that kind of material to a New York warehouse? This troubled me so I started looking for records that had been sent from the same location. There were records about Saudi Arabians who were taking flight lessons. There were lists of documents that were sensitive that were to be moved to the twin towers. And more, so much more that was evidence of a conspiracy of enormous proportions. I awoke with a start. Now I knew why they were trying to kill me. But the question was why now? And if I had those records, where were they? I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t. I lay awake trying to understand what was different.

The next morning, I got up and went across the street to the Denny’s to get some breakfast. When I was there, I bought a newspaper from out front. I almost never bought newspapers, I could find anything on the internet, but sometimes it felt relaxing to get news the old way. I went back to the motel room, waked   the girls, and put food on the table. Then I noticed a story in the paper. Julian Assange was being extradited. He was finally coming back to the United States to stand trial. There were so many things that he knew and did not divulge, in particular, some of his sources. He had also had not published many things considering them to be too dangerous. I wondered what would happen to him once he was in American custody. What would discovery produce when he went to trial, or would there even be a trial. Maybe a guard would not be watching when he killed himself like other high profile problematic detainees. Sitting on the couch and watching my kids playing Rayman, I nodded off. Again I dreamed. I was sitting at my workstation at the government facility. I had an encrypted connection through the onion router, a dark web method that makes it impossible to find the source of transmissions. I was writing an email to Julian Assange. I had attached a file that was over five gigabytes. I woke in a sweat. Now I understood what had happened in the current time that had triggered the attempt on my life. But the only explanation had to be that there was more than one copy of the files. Since they had Julian Assange, there was no longer any threat that he would release the files if I were killed, but on the other hand, if they had him, they likely had the copy I sent him. So, there must be another copy. But for the life of me I couldn’t think of where I would hide it.

Either way, I could not go on like this forever. My kids had to go back to school, and my ex-wife would eventually convince the police I had kidnapped our kids. I had to do something. I thought back to the time when I had left the government job. It was strange, because I didn’t have a reason to leave a high paying job, but I had never considered it. Now it made sense, but to figure out where I hid the files, I would have to remember what I was doing at the time I left. I had recently met my wife, and she wanted children. When we were dating, as a joke, I bought her an Elmo plush toy. I said it was for the kids we would have. When we divorced, I kept it because she didn’t want anything to remind her of before when we were happy. It was in a box in my garage. In fact, it was in the same box as those old photographs. A place where no one would think to look. The problem was that they would be watching my house and it would be almost impossible to get it without being seen. I needed a way to distract the watchers long enough for me to get in and out. Then I remembered the security system that I had installed. It had a siren that could be tripped remotely. The police would be automatically notified. If the police took ten minutes to arrive, and the watchers knew about how long the police response would be, I might have one or two minutes to get in and out when the watchers would not risk encountering the police. It was risky, but my only option. I told my kids that if I was not back in an hour to go to the front desk and call their mom.

When I arrived on my street, I could not see any obvious watchers, but that did not mean they weren’t there. They would have to be. I parked around the corner and set off the alarm. I could see people looking out their windows even this far away. I casually walked to my house and went in to the garage through the side door. There was the box, and there was Elmo. I quickly grabbed it and left through the back yard, climbing fences to avoid the street. When I got back to my car, I quietly drove away. It wasn’t until I had driven several miles that I stopped and parked. I took out my pocket knife and cut the stiches where Elmo was sewed together. There it was. A flash drive. The question now is what to do with it. On it was evidence of the government killing thousands of American citizens to justify a foreign war and to undermine our constitutional rights. At that moment I understood something else. The database I developed was not for government files. I was for keeping information on every American. It was the first tool to implement tyranny, and I helped create it. Suddenly I understood why the big tech companies were against freedoms and for censorship. They were really a part of the deep state. Of course all that data collected from those free email accounts was being stored and parsed by powerful algorithms waiting for the day when it could be used. It was not an accident that the cancel culture was so focused on things people had said years before. This was to prepare people for when past mistakes would be used to control them. The scope of what had been done was terrifying. But what could I do?

No large news company would touch this, and there was nowhere to publish it that it would not be taken down immediately. And anyone who did see it would be labeled as a conspiracy crackpot. No, I needed another way to get the truth out. I looked at that paper sitting on the seat of the car. There was a live broadcast of a golf tournament at Torrey Pines, just a few miles away. All I needed was some select documents and access to the video feed.

I stopped at a Best Buy and bought a laptop that could do video editing. I went to a nearby park and sat in my car working. I figured I had at most a minute to make my case. I found the files showing that they knew about the Saudi flight students. Another showed a building plan of the twin towers with locations marked. The third was the purchase of tons of thermite being delivered to a warehouse just blocks from the twin towers. The last was an email from Julian Assange promising that he would publish if I were killed. I put it together with some downloaded video of 9-11, and George Bush sitting in an elementary classroom, and the announcement of the Patriot Act which gave the government unprecedented powers. The last thing was a fake press pass. No one would think that a golf tournament was anything that would affect national security, so it wouldn’t be a problem.

Getting in was easy, but I needed a way to get into the broadcast booth. For that , I needed a costume change. As is common, restaurant staff keep work clothes in a locker room in places like Torrey Pines. I slipped into the locker room and found a servers outfit about my size. I quickly changed, and walked through the kitchen, picking up an order on the way. When I got to the broadcast booth, no one even asked why I was there, and I walked right in. The broadcast was just at the point where the players were on the first tee, so I knew that people would be watching.  I said to the staff in the booth “I have a bomb. I will detonate it if you do not step away from the console.” They scrambled to comply and within seconds the video was playing in living rooms and bars all across the country.  At the end of the video, I had a url where the files could be downloaded. Even if the government acted quickly, thousands of copies would be in the hands of the people.

Today, we live in a different country. Oh, it’s still the United States, but the corruption of the deep state has been removed. It was difficult for a while, and some brave Americans died. But they are in good company.

 

 

Why it doesn’t matter

reality is massively parallel

everything that can happen does

concurrently

small consolation when life sucks

that every other you also lives

Understanding

In 1966, on West 231^st Street in Torrance California, at 9:00 p.m. on Thursday, if you turned on your TV you could watch Star Trek. It was an amazing thing to see: spaceships and teleportation and cutting edge social commentary packaged in wet glossy inter-galactic warp speed. I was ten, and my father was a Nixon supporter. But Star Trek was not on our TV, ever. Why, there was a Negro right there on the bridge next to the captain, but worse, there was some fruity guy with pointy ears and green skin. What is the world coming to? Batman had long been banished from our house as too violent, never mind that corporal punishment was commonplace for me. So I was left out, I was excluded from that common mundane suburban scene. Instead, at 9:00 on some Thursday nights I could be found dressed in the darkest clothes I had, slipping quietly through the streets and along the tops of the cinder block walls that separated backyards in our neighborhood. Dogs almost never barked, so adept was I at passing silently. I would squat on one of these walls peering through a window, hoping to get a glimpse of Captain Kirk, and the Enterprise boldly going where no one had gone before. I would walk the quiet streets wishing desperately to be in one of those ordinary homes watching the same thing that everyone else was watching. I wanted to be included in the great swarming hive of culture that was exploding and changing everywhere in every direction. But I was ten, and my father was a Nixon supporter, and I would have to wait until he died and settle for the seedy second-rate seventies.

           

            In the summer of 1978, I sat on the beach in Carlsbad feeling the warm, salty air on my skin. Before me the ocean moved like something primordial and alive, the pulsing blood of the planet. I had dropped acid some hours earlier and was into the middle high where everything is in motion. The sky and earth danced like pond water under a microscope. I saw life everywhere. Sitting there, smoothing the sand with my hand and looking into the distant pattern of glistening water, I felt, viscerally, that I was part of an organism, no more separate from other people and things than two cells in my body. I looked down into the sand and saw patterns there. It seemed that everything since that first sudden painful contraction of reality was created again beneath my hand. In minute detail, and in broad strokes, the patterns formed and changed, and within them the repeating patterns of life, death, fulfillment, creation and devastation were marked. I realized that I had always been alive, and would always be alive. The rush of suddenly feeling so connected, so part of a living thing, was unbelievably powerful. I knew then that I would never be alone, never had been alone, that indeed, alone was impossible.

            Summer 2000. I was newly married and had begun a new life after 12 years of 16 hour days with a partner who found sport in conflict. My new life was simpler and sweeter. We had a dog. We would have a family. We were out for a bicycle ride around the neighborhood, which was ordinary and mundane in every respect. There were no fancy houses, no porches, no gates, no walls; just good fences and good neighbors. The sun would be going down soon, and the stirring air was a gentle lover’s caress. A tingling of awakening ran across my skin. I understood in that moment that you don‘t need to die to go to heaven. I looked back at my wife and laughed. “I am home” I cried, “I am finally home.”

biological imperative

stuck in a small town

stuck in suburbia

stuck in the city

stuck in a ghetto

stuck nowhere

it’s fight or flight

but there’s no flight

so, fight, fight…

it's just a matter of time

before biological imperative

tears down every pretty stupid thing

Poetry from the 80s

These are some poetry items written in the early 80s. Someday I will write more...


Running Home

Running the gamut
Flapping my arms at the edge of flight
Whispering the secrets of life
Digging through Grok, I'm truly out to see
But
Its not out there its not in there
Its everywhen and everywhere.
Dirt in my toenails, a child laughs
A distant sparkle across the water.
The master bows to the peasant
The peasant bows to his work.

Dave White 3/4/2005



Battle Child

Buzz buzz the flies
Under slate skies
And the wind is past,
Stained is the meadow’s grass-
The air sodden with ripening death.
Weeds caught in windblown hair
And tear-streaked cheeks
Eyes darting everywhere
The torn and tiny dress
Pink, red, and mud.
From kneeling, knees stained red
She carries a headless doll
among battle dead.
The flies buzz
She listens,
And kneels again.

Dave White 4/18/1982



Fire

After wet years
The forest stands
Thick, rich, and tangled--
Only lofty trees
Find time in the sun.
But in dry seasons
With no greening water
The sun parches trees
Grim brown and yellow
So fire comes in blitzkrieg lines
Through peaceful forest
Laying waste the land--
Only scorched survivors stand.
Then rains return
To wash and change;
To soften the edges
And deepen the lines
Of bleak black land.
In wet years
Innocent young trees spring
From rich black earth
And young forests whisper
With a new breeze.

Dave White 2/11/1982



Tiny Warrior

Across the burning gravel dunes
And past the fleshy hills,
To where the land is flat and wet
And shakes with pounding roar,
Along the path of scent and self
Trekked the tiny warrior.
Glad she was in warring strength,
Hard she was in sovereign color,
She loved her sisters as herself
And felt full pride
For tribal scent she bore.
Down the winding warrior line
Came a many savored spoor,
The turgid taste of insect meat,
And the twisted smell of war.
With quickened pace and gaping maw
And venom oozed for strike,
She raced across the salty ground
To pay her debt to life.
Twas there, around the spíké'd worm
That warriors strove in strife
Brave deeds for Reds and Blacks
Tributes to tribal might…
On a soft sunny day
At the ocean’s edge
A washing line of foam
Swept away
A caterpillar
And some ants.

Dave White 4/10/1982



Patience

Einstein shows us
That mass ain’t that fast
And reactions have their rate
That keep us in this state.
So,
If you want to visit stars
Or catch a glimpse of dinosaurs,
Don’t worry--
It’ll come to pass
That you leave behind
Your mass.

Dave White 4/12/1982



Ancestor

Silent slithers he
In men’s roots
Reptile that sees
From every eye;
With spectral venoms
Green, red and black
Is everyman fraught,
So to doom
Comes all
That reason has wrought.

Dave White 3/1/1982



Waves

Colors of light
Are left behind
On lunar dust,
Only the sun’s
Silver whisper
Goes on.
The moon gives
The round year waves,
The ocean waves,
And a woman’s waves.
Ripples in water:
Crest against trough,
Pattern against void,
Light against dark,
Life against death.
Waves are not lost
On sand,
But come to our ears
In a deep whisper.

Dave White 4/10/1982



A Dream

A rose petal
Loose from its moorings
To drift and wither
A brown curl
Hose-washed with debris
Down a suburban gutter.

Dave White 5/16/1982





Doom of White Knight

In gray land
Where day meets night
It is decreed
That gray is black
And gray is white
But truth
Has sown its seed.
White knight
Tall on white horse
From black night rides
Into gray dawn
The dark ones shudder
And slipTo darker shadow
From the mist
Forms the wizard gray
And from his fist
Shines light of day;
The knight draws
His blood-black blade.
Rolls of thunder crash
Clash of white and gray
Cold steel in cold light
Dissolves to ravens
In frantic flight,
White armor in mist gray
Tarnishes and rusts away.
From the shadows, a shout!
Dark ones drag the knight
From his shrinking mount
They rend and sever flesh
And dance in the gory fount…
In gray land
Where day meets night
Tis now decreed
That black is black
And white is white
And gray is judged
In honest light

Dave White 3/1/1982



Reality’s Texture

A boy, making toes and heels in sand
Stops for a shell
Feels its chalk, its rough and inside smooth.
A pinecone in hand; cool wood fruit
Spiky against your cheek.
Sometimes a feather in the street,
A gum wrapper or lipstick toothpick.
Student, leaving rubber-soled printsIn wet sand, stops for a shell: a clam
With his thumb he feels its rings
Of growth, and time in the sea.
Rough bark, and bristly green,
Among family and friends,
Grips black earth and rock, strongly,
Feeling the sky.
A pigeon from the park came by
To find a crust of bread, stale peanut,
Popcorn from the movies,
And to litter one feather.
Scientist, stamping heavy wingtipsInto the edge of land and sea,
Stops for a shell;
With practiced fingers he counts rings,
And contemplates warm dinosaur seas,
Cold fish seas, coral, kelp and crabs.
Gray squirrels, quick to move, to stop,
Halfway up a tall pine;
Two brown needles, together at the ends,
Twirl lazily down to soft needle carpet;
Slow beetles march, and gnats humIn pine flavored haze.
Tidbits in the city, bits here and there,
Heels on sidewalk!
Rush, short frantic flight;
Back to looking. A cocked head sees better.
An old man, feeble, his last walking days,
Uncertainly sets slippers into sand,
And stops for a shell,
One of many that grew and died,
And left its life, for boys, in the sand.


Dave White 4/12/1982