What’s in it for me?

I sat at the same old wooden table watching the Johnson Creek go by.

Of a sudden everything was green as if it had grown overnight.

The bushes were not thorny anymore.

They had put on nice and soft leafy jackets.

I had a can of Fearless I. P. A. (Steve would say I. P. eh, sounding like a Canadian, and then the whole thing would become a pun intended as in giving a hand to a man with no hands) taking the edge off of the night before.

I was biting the hair of the dog that bit me.

We played a few songs at the West Linn Saloon, and had a few drinks too many.

But we were not the only ones. It was a Friday night, and the saloon was packed with

people having fun associated with alcohol.

I ended up dancing with that tall blonde that looked too good to be true.

Somehow she stumbled upon Steve’s guitar case on the floor and dropped dead gorgeous

flat on her ass, at the same time hitting the table with the back of her head.

Her long legs winding half way up in the air.

I just stood there thinking it must have been a joke, but it wasn’t.

With a couple of other men that gave me suspicious looks, I helped her up.

Embarrassed she excused herself and was on the way to the restroom, swaying.

I could feel all those stares confused on how to tag me.

We sounded good, but then a bombshell fell on her ass sitting there a few seconds in

disbelief. It just didn’t feel right. Thank God I didn’t make her fall.

The patrons sitting a few tables down didn’t see that.

All they knew was she danced with me. 

And what kind of a cowboy was I sporting a Panama hat anyway?

Plus I sang that Russian gypsy song that they all jumped to like rhythmic yo-yos, and like

my life, the whole thing was out of place. 

Literally misplaced since I was born.

Even in my hometown I felt like an expatriate.

There I wore a made in USA t-shirt, and here I got people up on their feet with some

Russian gypsy songs. And some blues too.

And then the best blonde in town falls on her ass dancing with me.

All that is irrelevant, whilst nursing a hangover by the Johnson Creek, sipping on

Fearless local I. P. A. and hearing Steve’s I. P. eh in my head.

And then continuing with U. P. eh and We P. eh… 

Then I heard: What’s in it for me? 

Nobody said anything, but I could hear it clearly in the J. Creek’s murmuring.

The subconsciousness of the world was talking.

What’s in it for me? 

And the consciousness answered: In it to win it. 

I couldn’t help twisting it with a little g.

To win it, you’re to wing it. 

It felt weird again.

As if Siddharta was hangover by a creek, hearing voices.

And then it hit me. All that green. Nice and soft.

Just a few days ago, I sat there surrounded by different shades of gray.

The thorny bushes reached out for my eyes, as if wanting to scratch them out.

The sky was painted off-white and the trees looked petrified and bald.

It made me think of bald headed men pulling each other’s hair. 

Something that made us laugh in those times forever gone.

What was in it for me? Did I ever win, or was I just winging it?

And then it hit me again. And again. With every blink. Until I realized.

Another wet and dreary winter was gone.

It was all that green, nice and soft, that mattered.

And anew, I sat in it. 


Get a good night’s sleep before you die

 It’s a long way to go.

You don’t want to be tired.

You need to look decent upon meeting your Maker.

You don’t want to be hangover or something.

You are to be of good cheer.

He doesn’t need to see anybody corky, or grumpy.

Don’t complain too much.

What’s done is done…

You were told many a time you were to go one day.

When the day comes, don’t fear it.

It’s what you’ve been waiting for all along.

You were trained for it like an astronaut.

Are you going to be a bad one?

Might as well not go then.

Not yet.

You got nothing to show for it.

Spare yourself the trouble.

Better drive around the corner toward the Ross Island Bridge.

At the end of the exit lane stands a tall, old guy in a red jacket, waving at the line of

vehicles coming at him and passing him by.

When you are close enough, stop the car.

Even if those behind you keep honking.

Wind your window down, smile, and spare a buck.

The tall, old guy will smile back at you, a half of his teeth missing.

It might be Saint Peter, you never know.

If you hear Thank You, Beautiful Heart, God Bless You, Keep Smiling… 

You are ready to go.

Any time.

Keep driving thru.




The other day, checking out the submission guidelines, I stumbled upon:

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. 

Anais Nin. Okay. Why then they didn’t include:

We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are… 

You know why? Because they are unable. 

Do they know what fucks ours and our neighbor’s chickens and is not a rooster? 

Does anyone? But they don’t expect you. To Know. They want to sit behind the bench board, the godsend smooth operators, and enjoy watching the thousands of us falling onto the ground to fertilize it for that one fated acorn that is to make it. Inseminating and growing tall. Until one cuts ’em sturdy oaks down for furniture.

No wonder the most of the participants are bored shitless, watching the history repeat. Go to any rehab, whether you wait for your true love to get checked in, or it’s just you and your twisted self. Sit around that table on the patio and have a cigarette with the patients. Nine out of ten will tell you they became addicts because they were bored shitless.

Now, it’s not what you think. I thought the same thing. It’s not because they’re lazy. They are simply bored being a fertilizer for the chosen ones. They are bored being vassals, sick of mental slavery, second best. They want to be first. Can they all?

So, that fucks the chickens…

One should teach at schools that very few get to be first. Not just because they’re better. Being better is determined by various issues. Even a dash crazier person can make it due to an exceptional set of circumstances. What about the beginner’s luck? Who cares! Once they win, they take it all. Until they fall, kurcu za uši, and the whole cycle begins a new.

We were taught we were all equal. And then one pulled our school down.

Then you take a blue train around the world and find out that we’re not. All equal. Only when we love one another, but they managed to mess that up too. The smooth operators. They hacked the system, and now they just sit there having cocktails and laughing with those ducky voices like witches. Is that what we’re unable to say? That there’s a little movement sporting silky gloves with heraldic symbols and pushing our buttons? How is one to accommodate seven billion people anyway? One cannot provide them with seven billion steaks and bottles of wines. It’s been always cheaper to give away bread and circuses. Panem et circenses. So much blood shed in all those revolutions. The efforts were to no avail. Temporarily it worked, as long as it was needed for re-inaugurations to take place. And then a mindless self-gratification resumes. It was only interrupted with high hopes. That turned into not enough rope.

They teach you the time will come when our consciousness will be so high that we won’t need money nor police to protect it. We’ll enter a supermarket and just take what we need. But it also means no more supermarkets. No malls. Nowhere to hang out. Where to place our youth? How are we to feed them if there is no more high corn fructose syrup foods? How are we to control the masses? And what is the cheapest way? Religion doesn’t work. It has an expiration date. They say Jesus will return, and then one has a thousand years of peace with nothing but flowers growing out of their ears. And after that? How about a little Ice Age?

Here I am sitting wondering why I even bother. My neck hurts. No one is going to publish this. But they want something one is unable to say. To cover their asses. With a dramedy: an old immigrant song. Here you go. I’ll say it for you. You are fucked up. And you know it. But it works. It pays the bills. It’s hilarious. Back home it would be below the belt. Here, as long as it turns the windmills of your mind, it works. You got no dignity whatsoever. You don’t even know what it means exactly. Dignity. A proper self-respect. I know you try to focus on looking after your self. The only tricky part here is proper. It has lost its meaning. Proper speaking, proper behavior, a proper meal…it’s overrated. Or underrated… The truth. It’s supposed to set you free. But it doesn’t. You’re still the part of Part and Parcel. Only as the hell freezes over, the ultimate truth will reign again. A long, long time after it gets tired of loneliness and begins melting away… And then the paradox of the plankton starts all over again. It takes a while to discover a wheel and fire. It needs a bit longer to come up with the wheels on fire. After that it goes fast…

Have you died to your animal nature yet, and come to life as a human incarnation?

To see an old interview with Joseph Campbell on the TV at first felt like an apparition as if seeing ghosts. And then after a few familiar lines that you feel ingrained within like your own bloodline, you start liberating yourself from all the shit that has been overwhelming you. The mere saturation of it was made possible just because the good people like J. C. died and no one replaced them. Just to see and hear him talk made you feel as if your own spiritual father came back alive. A few of his comments made life easier again. You know you’re still surrounded by vultures, but now you see them only as a part of the almighty script. The Animal Nature. That was it. Thank you very much, it was nice to know you, I’m pleased to meet you, but it’s time for a Human Incarnation. Time to get off the merry-go-round and sit down in the quiet shade. Let them monkeys keep jumping around, feed them banana diets! Let them have all the sex they want! Let them steam aping the pistons, doing a lube job! Let them work hard and play harder! Let their big banks cheat them enslaving their democracy! It is time to step off of that crazy carousel and preserve humanity. Otherwise, for the benefit of our eyes, our brains are to be totally hog washed.

Unless appeased, all the warnings about missteps seduce us from the right path. Until we realize that off the beaten track was how, instead of turning corners, we turned in circles.

After J. C. the show went on. Bill Moyers had another guest. A guy from the Reagan’s administration. He calls it all the Crony Capitalism. There is no more Free Market. It’s bought and paid off. There is no more the good old trade controlled by private owners for profit where, after losing, one would walk off in shame tail between their legs. No, brother, one shamelessly comes back for more, scheming you, us. There’s big US paid for by little us. After they talked about the greatness, independence and donations needed for the OPB channel, in the end Bill Moyers asked us nicely to Free Our Democracy.

After that the TV went on about how the world is going to end, and how, out there, there are groups of people called Preppers. They’re getting prepared for it building deep bunkers. Like modern self-contained Cappadocians, living underground for at least six months until whatever ordeal happens on the surface gradually settles down. A sheriff said you don’t plan to fail, you fail to plan. BTW, he’s ready to kill in order to protect his family. Somebody has already stolen his generator.

Time shuts out Eternity.

J.C.’s words still resonate in me blissfully. Everything else has not died to its animal nature yet. I have experienced a full cycle again. I have been recognized and duped at the same time. It’s getting to know and being aware of the both sides of the coin, and then moving on with an open heart, doing whatever fulfills you without seeking recognition.

According to J.C. heroes are those people that try to make difference for others…

Then you’re fearless and desireless.