DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to those
varied souls i shared countless moments with
as we traveled together dodging demons,
praising the rise of the sun,
living just this side of the edge
and, sometimes, traveling further
than we should have traveled.
This is a mournful discovery:
Those who agree with you
are insane
Those who do not agree with you
are in power.
~ Philip K. Dick
P
erhaps it was because of the intense fevers I had when I
was a child. Perhaps it was because of leaving the safety of
my home far too early and discovering the insanity of the
world without guidance. Or, perhaps, I was simply crazy and just
needed to be around like minded souls.
Whatever the reason, soon after finishing my time in the U.S.
Navy I found myself working in Mental Institutions. Back when
we still called them Institutions. I was an orderly at first, then a
technician, then, after a few years of college, a psychiatric nurse.
While my plans included eventually getting a doctorate in psy
chology, the universe had other interests for me to develop; spe
cifically writing, publishing, and design.
As zeitgeist dictated and directed, soon enough my career in
the field of Mental Health came to an end. Governmental inter
vention became the theme of the day and hospitals, institutions,
care-homes, call them what you will, gradually became a thing of
the past. No longer was treatment offered to those in need. If they
were fortunate a passionate doctor would prescribe them anti-
psychotics until, of course, the prescription ran out.
Then came the whole health insurance scam which continues
to play out today. No longer are the mentally, and emotionally
challenged, for whatever reason, given anything remotely related
to treatment. Robotic humans in cubicles decide, without ever
seeing a patient, what is needed to “cure” them.
Imagine a nation’s surprise when they realized, after imple
menting this new system, for many people, there was no cure. Theirs
was to be a lifetime lived with coping as best they could, for as long
as they could, hanging on to that shred of a moment we like to call
“stability”.
I certainly was not one to help my cause. I despised conven
tional medications created to make people “normal” (tell me, what,
PREFACE
P erhaps it was because of the intense fevers I had when I was a child. Perhaps it was because of leaving the safety of my home far too early and discovering the insanity of the world without guidance. Or, perhaps, I was simply crazy and just needed to be around like minded souls. Whatever the reason, soon after finishing my time in the U.S. Navy I found myself working in Mental Institutions. Back when we still called them Institutions. I was an orderly at first, then a technician, then, after a few years of college, a psychiatric nurse. While my plans included eventually getting a doctorate in psy chology, the universe had other interests for me to develop; spe cifically writing, publishing, and design. As zeitgeist dictated and directed, soon enough my career in the field of Mental Health came to an end. Governmental inter vention became the theme of the day and hospitals, institutions, care-homes, call them what you will, gradually became a thing of the past. No longer was treatment offered to those in need. If they were fortunate a passionate doctor would prescribe them anti- psychotics until, of course, the prescription ran out. Then came the whole health insurance scam which continues to play out today. No longer are the mentally, and emotionally challenged, for whatever reason, given anything remotely related to treatment. Robotic humans in cubicles decide, without ever seeing a patient, what is needed to “cure” them. Imagine a nation’s surprise when they realized, after imple menting this new system, for many people, there was no cure. Theirs was to be a lifetime lived with coping as best they could, for as long as they could, hanging on to that shred of a moment we like to call “stability”. I certainly was not one to help my cause. I despised conven tional medications created to make people “normal” (tell me, what, PREFACE exactly, is “normal”?). So it was jointly decided between myself and the medical field to discover other methods of helping those in need. A handful of Shamans had introduced me to cultural norms and mores that have existed for millennia, using natural plants and minerals to help medicate those in society who need help from time to time. I am most grateful to these teachers and con tinue writing about, and practicing, their methods to this day. I am forever grateful for the knowledge they imparted to me. While I had stopped working in the field of Mental Health, the years I did spend working within it gave me profound insight into humanity, or lack thereof. I incorporated these insights into teaching people to use natural substances and methods in order to contain the demons that lived within them. Working with those whose path exists outside of our societies norms, I found I could easily have a conversation on advanced theories of evolution with a schizophrenic, as I could playing an intense game of three dimensional chess with a manic depressive. The strange thing was, for the most part, they all, everyone single one of them, actually made sense. I took notes. Lots, and lots of notes. In time these notes turned into poems, and then into what I have come to call, Stories Of The Mind. The poetry in this book dates to between 1981-1990, and were compiled from the aforementioned notes. The title of the book came from my time working at Napa State Hospital. Not certain why, because there was only one floor, but the title stuck with me, and I carried it on. In 1992, I had the extreme misfortune to accompany my soon to be ex-wife to custody hearings involving her son from a previous marriage and her ex-husband. The courthouse for our County, at that time, was downtown in an older building badly in need of repair. The courthouse was crowded, it stunk, and, of all things, Family Court was on the....4th Floor. Having a front row seat, week after week, month after month, as custody battles raged on, I was privy to all the fine humans who were there for the same reason, and their own personal battles. I eventually came to view divorce, and custody battles, as “The Great Unpleasantness,” and saw first hand how mental health played a large part in custody law, and in our society—Paranoia, Depression, And Other States of Mind, indeed. Before I go further I will state here, for clarity, our County did eventually build a wonderful and new courthouse far from the degradations of downtown. But inside those sparkling new court rooms there was still plenty of “The Great Unpleasantness” to go around. It simply never ends. In the ensuing years I wrote and published several books, cre ated many magazines, and designed countless ads for publication. This book has sat patiently waiting, in a worn leather briefcase, then a binder, and then, finally, into a computer, where it re mained for over three decades. Outside of fixing a few grammati cal errors, the poems appear as they were first written. Some still in note form. Putting this book together, re-living these poems and thoughts from ages ago, brought back memories as vivid as if they were written yesterday. The people that shared their lives with me; their fears, desires, and most of all, their dreams—took part in my own growth, both spiritually and mentally. What began so long ago as a series of notes in order to help me better understand patients I wished to help, morphed into poems of existence from a section of society seldom understood and, rarely, ever visited. Whether I was tasked with monitoring a schizophrenic violently spinning out of control, or playing check ers with a mass murderer that had a penchant for using a machete (who could also speak eloquently about God’s plan for our salva tion and the need to increase our collective spirituality), they all had a unique voice in our world. I believed then, as I still do today, we should listen to what they have to say. I am not proposing they are right. Or they are wrong. But when pondering such questions I always remember something many patients told me, over and over again, “How can you ap preciate the light if you’ve never seen darkness?” Sanity? Insanity? I’ll let you decide. Dave Boles, Grass Valley, CA Sept. 18th, 2025
will be as blue
on the day i die
as it is today
will the leaves
whistle
lightly as the wind
changes its pitch
will mountains be capped
white with late winter snow
will great white egrets dance
as they rebuild
last year’s nest
there is a softness,
a stillness here
river creeks play on,
mandolins tuned
by the seasons
clouds form
far in the distance,
the scent of rain
touches me
i can feel the darkness
growing
i search the land
asking if the sky
will remain blue
when my heart stops
and i return
home again.
small pieces of art
neatly arranged
three to a row
two rows to a canvas
six individual items
of color
of art
a tedious process
trimming them down to size
painstaking meticulousness
is needed
at ten dollars
a pop
can’t have too many
frayed corners
or damaged sides
this day
the foam board is unwieldy
despite the sharpest
blade
the canvas and board refuse
to go easily
after struggling with blade
board
canvas
i all but give up
the chimes on the door ring
her gentle form enters the studio
softly
earnestly
she crosses the room
giving me her look
she heads upstairs
i lock the door
placing my
“gone for lunch” sign
against the glass
upstairs
she is naked
shaved
immediately mounting me
she becomes lost
in her rhythm
our rhythm
explosive bursts
once, twice
three more
she leaves me with a soft kiss
our fragrance
scenting the room
* * * * *
upon her leaving
i remove the sign from the door
returning to the trimming
of canvas
a middle aged woman
and her son
enter the studio
she comments on how
sweet
the room smells
as her son purchases
a small canvas
i pocket the ten spot
my head filled
with visions
sublime.
she had a thing
for flowers in moonlight
told me it made her feel
safe
secure
knowing that color
still existed
when all else
went dark
i painted her
a blue peony
so she could feel
its embrace
she felt the canvas
touching it lightly
then deeper
more aggressive
rubbing her fingers
then her body
across the canvas
sitting quietly
afterwards
she wept for the first time
since her blindness
took her sight
as she proceeded to describe me
every last detail
on the canvas.
there is a moment
when you have been
up
drinking
for many days
perhaps
weeks
maybe more
you catch
sight
of a soul
reflected
in the mirror
behind a bar
in the window
outside a store
in the bright
eyes
of a child
where ever
the reflection
occurs
time suspends
you feel
the haggard
gaunt
life
of the street
taste
the death
that lies
in the back
of your throat
watch
as the concrete
gutter
rushes close
your blood
mixing
well
with the mud
of another day
realizing
there
in the
wet
muddy
street
how fortunate
you are….
this time
it was not
the bright eyes
of a child
that saw you
fall.
“you are here
to preserve freedom
act quickly
leave no evidence
no sound”
we were taught that
from the first day
throughout our training
and into the field
we had the message
seared into us:
“you are here
to preserve freedom
act quickly
leave no evidence
no sound”
before the start
of the war
when all there was
was us
hundreds of rounds
and a lot of training
it all seemed like
such a game
afterwards
after walking through
the valley of death
becoming shadows
of evil
things began
to change
missions were
more frequent
more bloody
risks were taken
much higher each time out
soon
one by one
we began to fall
each time
we were told
evidence
had been left
behind
after many years
my number came up
a routine call
nothing extraordinary
though my partner needed
to kill a girl
i had not noticed
hiding in the dark
it brought on
the inquest
they asked
the usual
questions
the need for secrecy
was their undoing
instead of securing
a facility
and themselves
they attempted
to extract
my information
locally
attempting to
hide
the embarrassment
the agent was pretty
long, blonde hair
equally long legs
she asked
the usual
preparatory
questions
when she reached
for her cigarette
i acted
a quick
thrust
with a pen
act quickly, no sound
there were two
rent-a-cops
working the door
equally as fast
they went down
no evidence
i had given thirty years
of dedicated
service
i was no longer a number
i was no longer a human
just a cog in their
machine
i caught the first boat out
finally
freedom
they never found me
though they searched
for days
now i leave this
for you
my message
in a bottle
i offer you
no gifts
only advice
take your freedom
the moment
it is presented
act quickly
leave no evidence
no sound
i crossed the finish line
shedding my skin
leaving it folded
wrapped tightly
with memories of you
Many people i worked with who suffered psychotic breaks had difficulty
expressing what that felt like. i developed the phrase “running in the ran” in an
attempt at explaining their experiences. The “ran”, being a moment of running
that was complete, and “running”, being in the moment of running itself; so as
they were running in their minds they were simultaneously finished with the
running as well, leading to a unique clarity of distorted time and space. The
phrase soon caught on and patients began telling me they could feel a psychotic
break coming on, stating they were soon to be “running in the ran”.
Slaughtering pigs
tomatoes have been ripening
corn, lettuce and green beans too
pigs have been slopped
readying them for the butcher,
meat chickens run haphazardly
across the yard
leaving a few feathers on the ground
that will not be scalded off later
an old bull looks on
from the small hill he favors,
milk cows patiently expand
their udders and lazily
chew
throughout the day
national disharmony
continues the current
love affair
with our media lovelies
talking heads speak,
their mouths foaming
slightly
at the corners
of their lips
no one notices,
we all understand
the story will be
repeated
five times
in the next
three minutes
our nation remains
bankrupt,
devoid of morality
our sense of
shame
unemployed
in these current
times
tomato’s ripening
in the nourishing
bright
sun
meat chickens still
running
haphazardly
about the yard
the pigs are ready
for slaughter
best get the knives
sharpened
quick.
we all acknowledge
the seasons
even those among us
who are not
Pagan
refer to seasons by name -
autumn, winter, spring and summer
debates flourish
among the academics
will the fires
of summer lead way to
the rains of autumn
causing mud slides on hills now born
of ash and charred trees?
will the rains continue
through into winter
flooding rivers, lakes
broaching
levee and dam?
should we send gifts
to the gods
to stop the deluge, should one arise,
or do we send offerings to them
to increase
the amount of rain
making certain
our fields turn fertile
in spring?
in a land filled
with capricious nature
we snipe at each other
over the most
trivial
things
believing ourselves
in control
of nature
we further fan
the flames of discord…
even rain
has now
become
political.
the walrus appeared to me
presented by a thousand dragonflies
beating their wings as one
they lowered him gently
not wanting to disturb
his slumbering self
“have you any breakfast” he asked
as he woke from his slumber
a slight glimmer appearing in his eyes
“i do not” i replied
“but i know of a penguin
who makes an awfully good stew”
the walrus pondered this for a moment
dismissing the dragonflies
with a wave of his pipe
a fine wreath of smoke
circled lightly
about him
“and what would you need in return?”
his great girth leaning towards me
his words singing in the air between us
“all i ask for is a memory
of childhood
perhaps, maybe, two”
my response puzzled the walrus
his flippers stroking
his gleaming tusks as he thought it through
“you drive a hard bargain,” he bellowed
“but, as you know,
i am fond of a good stew”
he granted my wish
and the penguin served him
my childhood appearing before me
all manner of friends
returned from my memories
running, shouting, playing together again
the walrus smiled at me
a small piece of carrot
lodged in his whiskers
i offered a white napkin
but it blended into the snow
the walrus vanishing, with astonishing grace
the rescue team that found me
told my parents i survived
three days in the avalanche
remarkably fit
for having been frozen
mumbling about a walrus, penguins and stew.
hitting paper
the sound of a dog
drooling while dreaming
the captive slice of a sunbeam
held for a moment, within the room
the postman delivers
a hand written missive
a true friend always takes the time to write
without the sterility of a computer
i’m often asked why i do not read more
the dog understands
as does the old typewriter
my friend, he understands
sometimes, i believe, the postman, too
i write
others read
occasionally, i come up for air
to hear the blue jay’s scream
inhaling large breaths of air
i return to the world
of computers whirring
phones ringing
i knuckle under and work
keeping an ear open
for the stray scream
of a lone blue jay.
it is about to be spring
and the monkey’s friends are gathering
look into the sky
you can see their ship
floating, gliding
giving us hope
of warmer days
the time of winter is past
cheerful flowers are the saviors
today
pick one from the garden
wear it brightly on your ear
write the music
that feeds your soul
create the rhythm
that drives your life
understand the joy
your mind can bring
leave this place for a while
fly with angels
taste the life
a fine spring day
may bring.
a river of fear and hate
courses through the soul of our land
the stain of political dissent,
a blight upon hapless citizens,
is the New Order
we have all feared its coming
prepared for it best we can
but the foul beast has run amok
and is taking no prisoners
political parties pick at each others’
candidates like so many headless chickens
running in the yard after slaughter,
their ideals increasingly devolving into
hate filled violence…
forget the rhetoric
let’s get straight to burning cars
and looting
what passes as journalism floods our media
social networks are on fire with stories
filled with nothing but lies
though they all
have great, catchy headlines
and a sweet photograph
that is irrelevant to the story it illustrates
these are the days where honor is lost,
civility is but a forgotten dream
and political truism is that the moment
you become elected to office
you spend time and money
doing nothing but
keeping your office...
forget about serving constituents
just draw another map,
pass a law or two
and get fresh meat
for the next campaign
the river winds
its murky path
of fear and hate
touching all with its rancid
nature
nothing new here,
to be certain
it is as old as humanity itself
and like bygone eras
when the river ran so
dank with fear and hate
a great flood will arise
to wipe the land clean
the righteous wait
listening
for the flood waters to roar.
the old man
motionless on the bed
his emaciated frame
uncommonly small
when compared
with the sharpness
of his eyes
searching my face
he wets his lips
beckoning me closer
whispering
“four inches,
four inches”
the nurse admonishes him
to remain silent
tucking him tightly
into the sheets
nothing left
but bone and skin
his eyes burn into mine
so clear
so alive
“four inches,
four inches”
his murmurs become
a chant
others in the ward
become silent
all is still
the only sound
is his whispered chant
“four inches,
four inches”
that night
the old man passed
his eyes wide open
his face frozen
in fear
a slightly noticeable stain
running down his cheek
gave the tell tale sign
of tears
before death
his frail hands
clutched
a small and well worn
crucifix
the charge nurse noted
he was catholic
and directed me
to call a priest
last rites
dignity for the dead
the usual fare
the priest arrived
a relic
from a distant past
he walked with grace
with dignity
his was a presence
of the righteous
on Earth
“I am here
for the deceased,”
his powerful voice
boomed
i led him to the old man
the ward
again
eerily silent
not a sound
as the priest
prepared
to salvage
the old man’s
soul
i watched intently
having never before
seen the ceremony
when it was over
God’s grace given
the priest noticed
my purposeful stare
he turned to me then
speaking with a voice
so clear
so full of life
“his soul is now gone
nothing left for him
but an eternity in hell
for want of four inches”
the scene was surreal
a frail, old man
dead upon the bed
a wizened priest
his robes flowing
though no wind
present
the priest came closer
and whispered
“he was a guard
at Dachau
he murdered
hundreds,
thousands,
he would hang them
from a pole
leaving them just
four inches
from the ground
they would die that way
knowing life
was merely
inches away”
the priest gathered
his belongings
and left me
the ward began
to come alive
sounds of life
gaining form
i looked down
at the old man
eyes now closed
hands still clutching
his worn crucifix
it was then i noticed
the size of the crucifix
it was exactly
four inches
four inches.
when did we begin watering down
our artistic wine
choosing to view rainbows
through trademarked RayBans
walking the paths of Bodhisattvas
in nine hundred dollar collectible Nikes
a shoe stand lies
at the end of the trail
offer the peasant boy
a shiny Buffalo Nickel
your kind action
will not go unnoticed.
desiring to speak with angels
i searched the Voynich Manuscript
for clues
pages in the manuscript
turned as if propelled
by a greater power
the pages rested on an image
of dancing, naked women
calling to me
i revisited my birth
naked, alone
screaming to be heard
dark wings wrapped around me
comforting me
soothing my fears
it’s been many ages
since those fears
abated
i have vague recollections
of a voice lilting
in divine grace
a voice fading
over time
until i no longer
heard it at all
as i near death
i long to hear
the sounds of angels
as i pass into the night
would dark wings find me again
or am i to die
alone.
God’s highwayman
the ice was thick on the road
the winds
wild
snow blew across the road
angels appearing in the mist
guiding us home
i had made this journey many times
knew when to turn
knew when to duck
i always advised my passengers
to take hold of the good book
perhaps find a passage
well worn
for travel
just in case i was asked
what my favorite passage was
“do no harm”
would be my reply
it was what got me the job
i’ve been at it for what seems
centuries
transporting souls that are lost
helping them find a way home
my own fate came at the hands of God
i was caught stealing in the name of the lord
taking the money
spending it on drink and women
it never occurred to me it was wrong
it was simply the way i was raised
some people are raised in a church
some in a brothel
some are cleaning women
some are politicians
in the end we all take the final journey
God saw fit to teach me to drive a carriage
gave me fine steeds
a pure black suit, too
told me my sins would be forgiven
but i had to guide lost souls home
help them into the light
i make my rounds at night
rain or snow
does not matter to me
i’m God’s Highwayman
finding salvation after stealing
from the lord
how will you find yours?
the chains dug deep
into his flesh
his body
paralyzed
years of torture
in chambers
unknown
to the public
left him
wracked
with pain
on the day
of his death
he let out
his last
primal scream
from deep
within
his concrete
cave
outside
in the brilliance
of light
school children
skipped rope
citizens
went about
their day
never suspecting
a thing
was amiss
life went on
dutifully
we talked of who to vote for
in the continuing
round of lies
never aware
there were
prisoners of conscience
hidden
from us
they had been locked away
for their political beliefs
left to die
in concrete caves
of our making.
and ruby slippers
got me a good witch
in crystal shoes
innocent girl
from the heartland
kills the bad witch
sing’s them blues
tiny people
need a leader
corrupt system
no longer work
man in back room
pulling levers
smoke and mirrors
rule the day
aged story
never changing
tarnished hero
saves the day
until somebody
asks question
how much hero
wants in pay
no absolution
for the people
only taxes
they must pay
cost you money
pull some levers
blow smoke their way
we all like stories
with happy endings
ruby slippers
heartland girls
tiny peoples
across our nation
telling stories
of better days.
‘
‘
insecurity
like an aging hooker
should know
when to retire
with skin for paper
blood for ink
and a skull for my pen
i believe i can taste
the smell of death
thick as bacon
frying nicely
on a cool
summer morning.
felt it mounting
till finally
he succumbed
to its demands
donning it
as a headsman dons
his black mask
separating him
from both world
and himself
he realized
what it meant
to be alone
now
he was aware of it
enveloping him
smothering him
crushing him
with its darkness
an open window
to jump
he watches people
below
struggling
with their own
darkness.
how many suspect?
how may eyes penetrate?
pointing
a crowd begins to form
urging him
cheering him
to jump
to leap
to his death.
smiling
he finds his strength
and pities them
they haven’t the courage
to face their own
darkness
he does it for them.
The door’s brilliance
on the horizon
he had seen the door
many times
glimmering
sometimes
radiant
against the horizon
he heard the call of its brilliance
saw the light
merging
as it shut
tight
against the limits
of body
of mind
the door appears
when it appears
it is always closed
always brilliant
at times the brilliance
blinds
hurts the eyes
other times
elation, joy
overpowers and gives
comfort
he learned to not
approach the door
too quickly
and never
to reach out
over the years a peace
evolved
he knew the door would open
when it was time
a smile
serene
escapes, but for a moment
in that moment
the door relinquishes
its purpose
he viewed it
glimmering
on the horizon
he saw its
radiance
shine
anticipation
he knew the door
would open
a smile
serene
escapes his lips
it was time
for a moment
he becomes one
with joy
then lives
no more.
light ‘em up
take the fuckers down
make ‘em burn
show the world
who is boss
why bother with
explanations
when none are
needed
they are inferior
we are superior
their mindless chants
of vengeance
drift off into the night
unheard
unlike the screams
of children
caught in the middle
of an ages long and
ancient
pissing contest
that
at its most
effective
level
does little more
than maintain
a surplus population
for the wretched souls
that believe themselves
rulers of the land.
of children assassinated
in utero
blind
robbed of the pleasures
of mind and the body
damned to be sickness
life of deformity
innocent creature
the child in utero
condemned by the madness
of woman indulgence
they feel within
foul taste of the bottle
contemptible journey
this journey of sadness
which burns at the heart
and tears at the eyes
while some death is final
theirs is a torture
of life to be lived
where is the justice?
woman resentful
of bulge in her body
disrupted figure
no men will it bring.
a father type needed
to take care of woman
but what about baby
who the fuck cares?
now woman lie heavy
all bloated
distorted
pulls on her bottle
pretends it not there
maybe she give it
to fine upstart family
maybe she drop it
down trash chute
down stairs
politicians they tells us
this baby don’t matter
this baby not born yet
why worry
don’t care
all sadness madness
this child in utero
this child unwanted
alive in despair
outside in the distance
a dumpster lies waiting
these children
assassinated
in utero
blind.
crows were dancing on lawns
making sounds
humans could not understand
men in their slippers
women in their housecoats
listened with irritation
to the early morning sounds
we have all known
many types of pain
some are fleeting
some remain with you
some can motivate
some can cripple
on the morning the crows
danced on our lawn
i had not known pain
your mother grabbed me by the arm
urgently stating
it was time
bags were packed
quickest route
plotted
we left the dancing crows
and headed out
at the hospital your mother
stumbled
falling gracelessly
to the still cool
pavement
orderlies ran to our car
a nurse appeared
blood had pooled
where your mother fell
as quickly as it began
it was over
the doctor could not
look me in the eye
he told me they could not
save your mother
they could not
save you
he reassured me
these things happen
gods will, and all that
a nurse was directed
to clean the room
glancing out the window
i watched crows
dancing
on the lawn
it’s now been thirty years
since i truly
learned pain
i buried you
here
in this cemetery
your mother lies beside you
i come and visit
thinking of you
often
i keep an eye out
for dancing crows
though not once
have i seen them
dance on your graves.
buses are rolling
along the highway
in the back of my mind
i envision a dog
with my girlfriend
and become
extremely
agitated
puking all over
the lady sitting
next to me
i smile at her
knowing
i’ve wet my pants.
waking up
morning sunshine
birds singing
flowers blooming
becoming all that
shit
in poem’s we’ve read
fuck it
no be true
false god
nature as idol
be made worship
her
mother nature
aged whore
reeks of beauty
bullshit poetry
written for her
in her name
no be true
no be true
beauty be beast
destroying angel
killing thousands
at her whim
say what
you want
a flood
perhaps volcano
blowing brilliance
fiery breath
lighting night on fire
like sun exploding
or quake
moving earth
tossing homes
like so much nothingness
she levels culture
in one fell swoop
mother nature
destroying angel
killing hundreds
thousands, millions
what say you?
i’m feeling kind of sketchy lately
out of sorts
not myself
can’t seem to shake this feeling
of apprehension
stopped listening to talk radio
stopped listening to NPR
don’t watch the news
unless it’s about a fire
or a flood
quit listening to conversations
in grocery lines
or while purchasing gas
i’ve even stopped talking
to the donut lady
no longer hang out
at the strip club
or the church
though once in a while
i still visit the VFW
there is a murkiness there
that cannot be replaced
by coffee, or cocaine
or even Sharkleberry Fin
and gin
i used to drink with my dog
every night
people said it was
creepy i drank alone
so i poured him a shot, too
one night i got arrested
pulled over because the dog
was on my roof rack
barking and jumping
and slobbering as we drove
the judge wanted to know why
my dog was on the roof
of the car
as i drove down
the freeway
i told him i had run out
of Sharkleberry Fin and gin
and offered myself a shot
of tequila instead,
or maybe twelve
the judge sentenced me
to thirty days
and they put the dog
up for adoption
at a dog halfway house
i got released and
started feeling kind of sketchy
out of sorts
not myself
couldn’t shake the feeling
of apprehension
my court ordered therapist
gives me exercises to complete
so far, to date
i have come to understand
to not give the dog
Sharkleberry Fin and gin
and…tequila
though i am quick to point out
to the therapist, to the judge
to all i encounter
i did have the dog on a chain
when he was on the roof
how stupid would that be
to drive down the freeway
with your dog on your roof-rack
without any
kind of restraint?
paranoid thoughts
creeping deep
inside
our minds
shooting each others
brothers
with hardened bullets
of fear
living in the schizophrenic world
timelessly takes
its toll
poor men seeking
searching
don’t hesitate
don’t fall
don’t lose your soul
for when the mad hatter topples
and Alice returns to home
it is then we’ll rise in splendor
our turn
to run the show.
the girl with the hungry
eyes
brought terror into his life
she showed him crystal
visions
scoring his eyes
leading him down
pathways
with every exit an entrance
into yet another
sordid dream
she talked freely of love
power
the feeling she got
from watching him
writhe
on a bare
wooden floor
the sound of a knife
slicing quick
through the dead
of the night
loosing demons
which feasted upon
his soul
she laughed
applauding the moment
with twilight
sparkling
from her red
bloody lips
while he lay helpless
victim
to her madness
a gag in his mouth
no sounds
could he scream
in silence
she sheathed the knife
the demons
had been freed
time to move on
to find another
to show
her crystal visions.
long into the night
bathing
in the morning
washing away
their sins
read the words
that are emblazoned
upon your heart
share the lyrics
that stir
within your soul
view the world
as a playful child
so you may forever
remain free.
i need to register
as an independent
no party affiliation
that way
when the swine are
re-elected
and carpet bomb
strange sounding
countries
killing innocent
civilians and children
along the way
i can rest easy
knowing it was
the other voters who
elected such a
low-brow candidate
my candidate only
carpet bombed
daisies.
insist on helping me
passing laws of inequality
under the guise
of furthering society
proclaiming reforms
from their specious perches
in the Ivory Towers
my money supports
i only needed help
once in my life
when my Radio Flyer wagon
broke
decades ago
it remains broken
i send messages
to the whoremongers
in the Ivory Towers
to fix my wagon
they do not reply
i will wait
patiently
ignoring the decay
their opulence brings.
all around us rained death
as we looked towards
another sunrise
unwilling to see
the blood before us
our masters exact
a heavy toll
upon which to travel
their roads are paved
with the blood
of the innocent
their tolls are paid
with money made
from the flesh
of the damned
choosing to ignore
the death around them
searching for the sunrise
in a blood red sky.
speak to me
empty your mind
there are only friends here
for Ba’al has blinded his enemies
they come for him
through your dreams
leveling forests
vacating seas
you were right to seek my counsel
these are ancient ways
practicing this magic
is ancient as sand
there is much to discover
truth, is a fleeting moment
all father, El, guides your dreams
all mother, Asherha, guides your soul
you wear the mark of Yahweh
believing it protects you
i will tell you, it will not
El saw the birth of your God
Asherha, bringer of life
was the midwife
Ba’al was trusted
to guard Gods soul
many people claim the status
of a one, true God
this should come
as no surprise to you
the wasteland is filled
with the bones of religion
i tell you this in earnest;
there is not a need for doctors
your mind is cluttered
your thoughts in disarray
empty your mind and speak
with the clarity of ages
Ba’al is there for you
accept these things
the demons are false Gods
come, let us slay them together.
in a windowless room
in a tiny cubicle
amidst reams of paper
and antiquated machines
a lone bureaucrat
hungry for advancement
develops a form
for the continuation
of civilization
no longer a need
for political splendor
or rancor
society will be able
to fully function
through the use
of his form
a number 2 pencil
is all that will be required
tabulation of the forms
will be done quickly
thereby saving civilization
from itself
* * * * * *
in a windowless building
in a tiny cubicle
amidst reams of paper
and antiquated machines
a lone bureaucrat
dissatisfied with his life
ignores the forms
filled out
by the masses
he has no need
for his these forms
too much work
not enough retirement
he goes back to his nap
with dreams of exotic
tropical girls
this is not
a time for work
this is a time
for a nap
awakening to the pile
of forms on his desk
he removes them swiftly
to the waiting trash bin
thereby ending
all of civilization.
no longer can poetry be
read
for the sake of
hearing
words
the crowd must be
entertained
they must be
given their
money’s worth
no matter
they paid not a cent
at the door
poems of substance
will not be tolerated
political positions
are right out the door
rules of
the new order
include punch lines
fun times
give the masses
what they want
keep them
entertained
bring in the crowds
make them feel
cozy
make certain you have
a catchy name
and for God’s sake
don’t forget the punch line!
no longer can poetry be read
for the sake
of hearing
words.
our relationship
approaching it
as high wire acrobats
in training
working with a net
all things are possible
until the net is removed
the crowd is in place
the tickets sold
the ring master commands
all to watch
high above
a lone acrobat
flying without fear
his partner
applauding
enthusiastically
from the ground.
i dropped the pop-tart
right on top of the cat
dog didn’t seem to mind
grabbed a corner and fled
cat chased after him
wanting the whole pop-tart
the whole enchilada
so to speak
Reagan speaks to me from the grave
reminds me there are 8
pop-tarts to a box
enough for the dog
the cat
and Ronnie, too
i pour myself another cup of coffee
it’s going to be a long day.
you chose to die
before Christmas
thought it would make it
more palpable
more believable
the death you carried
would not go quietly
many lifetimes later
it reared a crescent head
the cancer was deemed
a service related incident
your life insurance policy
would not pay
a wife, three children
were to be left penniless
your insurance company
would escape the payout
the night was bitter cold
when last we met
you handed me your wallet, your watch
called me brother
i stuck you quickly
before we could think
you lay bleeding out
my blade deep into your spleen
* * *
on these nights
before Christmas
when it is bitter cold
i remember
the policy you had paid into
all those many years
the policy that would not pay
for your service related cancer
was forced to pay in full
for the robbery
for your murder
on that dark, bitter,
cold night
that night, that winter
you provided
for your family
and upheld your honor
i’ve never forgotten you,
my brother
your family lived
your dream survived
i look in on them
from time to time
as requested
though i remain
as agreed
a stranger
rest well, my brother
i will see you
on the other side.
wore a yellow ribbon
loosely
about his neck
wore too tight pants
pointed shoes
wingtips
on occasion
and that yellow
ribbon
loosely
about his neck
had a way with laughter
he dyed his hair, you know,
and sniffed cocaine
on occasion
he’d run the streets
naked
screaming
thoughts of solitude
turning his yellow ribbon
the color of ash
grey
naked
lifeless
along the street
we’d find him
trembling
and would take him
home
to bed
and steal his cocaine.
in confessional
solitude
he would carefully
pluck
his eyebrows
pruning
that ungodly bush
to a small
thin
line
could take hours
but he had
the time
drying
above the radiator
the yellow ribbon hung
limp
waiting
anxiously
to be tied about his neck.
we found him
early morning
hanging
there
above the radiator
the yellow ribbon
tightly
about his neck
his face
neatly
arranged
his hair
perfect
dyed yellow
looked lovely
as ever
we left
before we disturbed him
left him
alone
with his passions
though we did manage to remove
that ever present
vial of cocaine.
he wore a yellow ribbon
loosely
about his neck
till one day
it tightened
i believe he alone
understood the laughter
he alone
understood it’s tide.
in the room where
all is quiet
serene
gilded light illuminates
bringing
warmth
on a frosty day
there
on the streets
where all is chaos
whores
tramps
addicts
pushers of all kinds
trample the earth
dead
with their decay
in an instance
the two
merge
a unified spirit
defined
this, i cry out
is life.
Can you hear me…
i am the voice of a child
beaten and raped
living in a shelter
no family
nor friends
my attacker
roams free
on bail
his local church
rallying
behind him
supporting him
with platitudes
of every kind
even the local paper
fails to use
the word
victim
when they speak
of me
...i am
no more.
when the fever comes
i lay by the window
watching paintings drift
between trees
though skies are dark
the light dim
colors of the paintings race vibrant
through my mind
the large oaks produce exquisite works
purity of thought melding with the
movement of the trees as they dance
in the wind
the pines and cypress lend
a more impressionistic style
while the palms produce
dada at its finest
paintings drift gracefully
between trees
as i lay in my bed
in total rapture
* * * * *
i have always run
high with fever
as a child i would hide our thermometer
so my mother would not know
playing this hide and seek
could last days
until my pale body
would finally collapse
doctors chastised me
telling me i needed to understand
the damage fever
could bring to a child
i ignored them then
as i do now, preferring to watch
paintings dance
between trees.
Upon riding Mescalito’s horse
Mescalito’s horse delivered me
to the bottom of a turquoise mountain
on the far side of a meadow
under a pale, green sky
where the Nagual spoke
delivering Zen koans
that floated
lazily
fading
as they moved
to the horizon
i managed
to hear
the Nagual’s lyrical voice
chanting
rhythmically
“one plus one
does not
equal
two,
it equals
one”
i challenged the Nagual
speaking clearly
directly
pointedly asking
“how can this be?”
the horse’s spots
shone brightly
his mane glowing
a magnificent magenta
turning orange
then persimmon
as the Naugual
spoke
“one plus one
equals
one
it is one love
one heart
that you seek”
with a wave of my hand
they both disappeared
like smoke
on a calm summer day
drifting effortlessly
timelessly
until they were
no more
Mescalito’s horse
returned to the meadow
the Naugual flew
to another’s
need
i was left
sitting
floating
for a brief moment
i had glimpsed the truth
of understanding everything
while still knowing nothing
nothing at all.
the last ship departed
minutes before the apocalypse
pounding its way through the atmosphere
it reached its goal of space
gliding silently
effortlessly
our vessel’s course set
decades before it launched
hundreds of our ships sailing
past the moon
past Mars’ red fields
past the rings of Saturn
a world in exile
from its own planet
its destruction foretold
by ancient Anunnaki
in stories Sumerians
painstakingly recorded
their message ignored
by ignorant people
arrogance driving
their greed ambitions
flaunting truths
the genocide began
removing food
from whole Earth Mother
replacing it with
chemical death
fabricated food
by fabricated people
sustaining life water
carrying disease
from shore to shore
no longer sustaining life
now a mixture
of glowing
toxic sludge
those that were fortunate
found refuge
traveling to a distant planet
only spoken of
through ancient poems
history
denied
they look to their children
whose eyes stare back
vacant
they will spawn a new world
one in which all
shall forever remain free
until their children’s children’s children
begin losing their history
and many eons later
the cycle will begin
again.
turkish coffee to wire me
eyes bleary from writing and designing
three days straight
perhaps it has been five
there is a well known noise
that hums from the inside
of my head
to the outskirts
of some
other
life
it is magic hour
in this land
i am home at last.
the silence of our children
is proof of our decay
we shed our responsibilities
acknowledging
the charismatic among us
know the way
they possess the knowledge
all knowing
all seeing
looking deep into our souls
they see the fire
burning
within
they guide us
shelter us
from ourselves
and our sins
they give us rules
to live by
stories to fuel
our beliefs
there is no need
for individual
responsibility
an entire planet
could be at peace
if only the charismatic
were obeyed
no questioning
their purity
despite the occasional
fall from grace
they are the chosen
the ones who are pure
decide
they speak for all
we handed over our progress
to them
gave up all rights
to them
their disease quickly swept
beyond trite
religion
spilling over to politics
leadership at every level
was handed over
to them
the faithful flocked
to the cause
of righteousness
the charismatic
demons
allowed an out
for our responsibility
while some might argue
that was really
not the case
it was all only a glimmering
of the madness
behind a mad man’s eyes
though that
as well
is still not true
for the proof
is easy enough
to see
the silence
of our children
is proof of our decay.
the podium is empty
at the Buffalo Club
late nights spewing words
until we were kicked out
are no more
i recall the twang of guitars,
the nasal recitation of poetry
limply passing as blues
an errant set of panties
are thrown upon
the buffalo’s massive head
outside, a city is consumed
with besting its rival
Baghdad by The Bay
a chapbook is sold,
the bartender pocketing the money
to offset my tab
there are rumors
these days never appeared
at all
history is written
by those that
were never there
memories float by...
clouds on a cloudless day
my turn at the podium
is coming up
i must not be late.
the heat around you
is the fire burning
from within
when the clarity
that comes
from a magnificent fog
enveloping your mind
your body
your spirit
your soul
showing the path
hidden...
it is these times
these exact
moments
that truth
for the briefest
of instances
shows itself
it is these times
these exact
moments
that truth
for the briefest
of instances
shows itself
and life, gracefully
becomes bearable, again
there is no sin
no memory
no pain
there is only
the path
leading you
to the next
fire
burning
from within
the next fog
enveloping.
night time was the worst
it was when the screams began
and the nightmares
became real
screaming through the night
strapped to her bed
skeletal frame
hair torn out in clumps
fingernails like talons
would rip your flesh
if you came too close
orderlies had to don
special equipment
just to trim her nails
wash her hair
un-strap and then strap again
was the procedure each time
she would begin screaming
her appearance was severely
emaciated and was
from all appearances
a demon from hell
she was selective of staff
letting only her chosen few
attend to her
i was a fortunate soul she let in
if only for brief moments
there was something about my beard
and long hair
that captivated her
calmed her
allowing me to tend to her
to make her as comfortable
as i could
she had been institutionalized
for close to three decades
the medications had rotted her teeth
left her scalp bald
here and there
i would offer her sweet fruit
so she might eat
over ripened peaches
pears
plums
nectarines
at times, it was the only
nourishment
she would have
for weeks on end
on the days she was peaceful
she would tell me of the train
that took her family
the family wagon had stalled
on the tracks
her husband, apparently,
had a heart attack and left them
her and the children,
three of them
stranded as the train roared
closer
she could not revive her husband
and her children, frozen with fear
would not leave the car
she barely escaped
before massive steel
ended her family
this was a story
she would tell
to anyone who would listen
while nights were spent screaming
daytime was spent rapturously describing
her perfect family
that never visited
“where are the children?” she asked
in truth, there was never
a family wagon
that stalled on the tracks
her husband did not have
a heart attack
her children
were never in the car
it was all a delusion
created to salvage
what little she could
she had brutally murdered
her entire family
killed them all
her parents
his parents
the children
the family dog
she had even drowned the cat
and left pet goldfish
lying dead on the floor
the courts found her insane
with no hope for a cure
she was remanded to institutions
which was where i met her
screaming through the night
strapped to her bed
calling out to children
as if they were there.
care and treatment in america
R
emember this statement: the definition of insanity is
doing the same thing over and over again and expect
ing different results.
In a bid to de-institutionalize our mentally ill in hopes of
“helping” them, we sacrificed quite a bit of our own public
safety in doing so. In 1833, Worcester State Hospital in Mas
sachusetts opens as the first mental hospital fully supported
by state funds. It was a historic moment; for the first time in
America’s history the mentally ill were able to receive medical
care that was fully paid for by the state. By 1860 twenty-eight
of the thirty-three existing U.S. states had state psychiatric hos
pitals for their mentally ill citizens.
In a little talked about piece of American history, from
1939-1945, during World War II, conscientious objectors to
the war entered state psychiatric hospitals to replace doctors
who were sent away for the war effort. These “doctors”, some
of whom had medical training (most did not) did little more
than to keep their patients sedated and out of the public eye.
All while “serving” their country as conscientious objectors nie
doctors.
On May 6, 1946, Life magazine published “Bedlam 1946,”
an exposé of two state hospitals: Pennsylvania’s Byberry, and
Ohio’s Cleveland State. To a country shaken by the recent rev
elations of Nazi atrocities, the pictures were deeply affecting.
The crisis in state mental hospitals motivated a Dr. Walter Free
man, to devise a simple version of the lobotomy procedure,
one that could be used on a mass scale, in order to appease the
increasing panic of “Mental Illness”.
His article was followed by court and grand-jury records
that documented scores of deaths of patients following beat
ings by attendants in attempts at controlling patients. Hun
dreds of instances of abuse, falling just short of manslaughter,
were similarly documented. Reliable evidence from hospital af
ter hospital indicated that these were but a tiny fraction of the
beatings that occurred, day after day, only to be covered up by
the tacit conspiracy of mutually protective silence and a code
that ostracized employees who dared to break this code.
Yet beatings and murders are hardly the most significant
of the indignities that were heaped upon the 400,000 guiltless
patient-prisoners of over 180 state mental institutions at the
time. Thousands spent their days -- often for weeks at a stretch
-- locked in devices euphemistically called “restraints”: thick
leather handcuffs, great canvas camisoles, “muffs,” “mitts,”
wristlets, locks and straps and restraining sheets. Hundreds
were confined to “lodges” -- bare, bed less, rooms reeking with
filth and feces -- by day lit only through half-inch holes in steel-
plated windows, by night becoming black tombs in which the
cries of the insane echo from the peeling plaster of the walls.
Such were conditions of our mental institutions and their
patients.
In 1954 Chlorpromazine, marketed as Thorazine, was ap
proved by the Food and Drug Administration. It was the first
anti-psychotic drug widely used to treat the symptoms of men
tal illness. For many, it brought hope that some patients could
live among the community and for a brief moment, there was
a breath of hope.
Nationally, in 1955 the number of patients inside public
mental hospitals nationwide swelled, peaking at 560,000. By
1959 the number of patients in California’s state mental hospi
tals peaked at 37,000, alone.
With state resources struggling to maintain individual state
hospitals and programs, in 1963 President John F. Kennedy
signed the Community Mental Health Act (CMHA). This Act
pushed the responsibility of mentally ill patients from the state
to the federal government. JFK wanted to create a network
of community mental health centers where mentally ill peo
ple could live in the community while receiving care that was
standardized throughout the country. Many believed he might
have been inspired to act because his younger sister, Rosemary,
who was mentally disabled, had received a lobotomy and spent
her life hidden away. Whatever his reasons, the CMHA was a
revolutionary piece of legislation that gave help to those in our
society who were desperate for help but unable to advocate for
it on their own.
Less than a month after signing the new legislation, JFK
was assassinated. He never got to see his plan develop. The
community mental health centers never received stable fund
ing. Fifteen years later less than half of the promised centers
were built, and the bulk of the program had fallen into disarray.
When the U.S. Congress established Medicaid and Medi
care in 1965, there was again renewed hope for the mentally
ill. Though soon after the act was signed into law it is discov
ered that mentally disabled people living in the community at
large were eligible for benefits, but those in psychiatric hospi
tals were excluded. State legislators began encouraging patients
to be discharged inn large numbers in order to shift the cost of
care for mentally ill patients to the federal government.
Two years later, in 1967, Ronald Reagan is elected gov
ernor of California. By the time of his election, the number
of patients in California state mental hospitals had fallen to
22,000, and the Reagan administration used the decline as a
reason to make cuts to what was then named the Department
of Mental Hygiene. They cut 2,600 jobs, along with ten per
cent of the budget, despite reports showing that hospitals were
already below recommended staffing levels.
1967 also was the year that Reagan signed the Lanterman-
Petris-Short Act which ended the practice of institutionalizing
patients against their will for indefinite periods of time. The law
was regarded by manye as a “patients bill of rights”. While this
was in a somewhat positive direction, sadly, the care outside of
state mental hospitals was inadequate to maintain proper care.
The year after the law went into effect, studies show the num
ber of mentally ill people entering California’s criminal justice
system doubling.
Another two years go by and in 1969, Reagan reverses his
earlier budget cuts and increases spending on the Department
of Mental Hygiene by a record $28 million, the most Califor
nia had ever spent on Mental Health. But despite the added
budget increase, the number of patients in California’s Mental
hospitals fell to 7,000 by 1973.
President Jimmy Carter, in 1980, signs the Mental Health
Systems Act, to improve on Kennedy’s dream. But a year later,
in 1981, with Reagan no longer Governor and now our Presi
dent, he repeals Carter’s legislation with his Omnibus Budget
Reconciliation Act. This act pushed the responsibility of men
tally ill patients back to the states. The legislation created block
grants for the states, but federal spending on mental illness de
clined. States used the money for anything and everything, but
future audits uncovered that little money actually went towards
mental health as the money was termed “discretionary”.
The downward trend of help for the mentally ill continued
to spiral towards a deep and dark chasm where little help be
came available for the mentally ill. If any at all.
In 2004, a U.S. Department of Justice report acknowledged
estimates that ten percent of state prisoners had symptoms that
met criteria for a psychotic disorder who were offered little to
no help. With no facilities available to handle these disorders
prisoners continued their downward spiral.
According to a 2015 assessment by the U.S. Department
of Housing and Urban Development, 564,708 people were
homeless on a given night in the United States. At a mini
mum, they found that 140,000 people, or twenty five percent,
were seriously mentally ill. 250,000, or forty five percent, had
some form of mental illness. These were our fellow citizens who
were, yet again, offered little to any help.
As of 2018, there were 11,682 registered mental health
treatment facilities in the U.S. Within those, 8,956 were less
than 24-hour outpatient facilities while 1,920 facilities were
24-hour inpatient facilities; leaving just 806 facilities for long
term care. Eight hundred and six, for the entire nation.
Compare that number to 1,833 state prisons, 110 federal
prisons, 1,772 juvenile correctional facilities, 3,134 local jails,
and 218 immigration detention facilities, where a collected 2.3
million people are held at any given time.
In the United States, it is widely recognized that almost
half of adults (46.4 percent) will experience a mental illness
during their lifetime. Five percent of adults (18 or older) expe
rience a mental illness in any one year, which is equivalent to
43.8 million people.
Is it any wonder then why our policing solution is inad
equate? While we currently house 2.3 million people a year
in our prisons and jails, there remains an estimated 43.8 mil
lion people a year who will experience a mental illness of some
form. With only a handful of facilities to handle these mental
illnesses, authorities are left to do their best, though that is not
much.
Perhaps we, as a nation, should begin shouting, and loudly
at that, to return to a plan such as what JFK initiated with the
Community Mental Health Act. It certainly might be worth
a try as whatever it is we have been struggling with for the
past few decades is certainly not working. Homelessness, ad
diction and mental illness continue to soar while fewer and
fewer services are offered as assistance. Where there is money
dave boles, founder of the alternative literary and visual magazine, Primal Urge, developed Cold River Press in 1990 to promote regional writers and artists. Living in Northern California at his beloved Lake House with his wife, Mrs. America, and numerous animals, he chronicles his devotion to the ancestors, writing of ancient mysticism through his Coyote Series. The Golden Pakara is tattooed on his back.