Bad Girl says yeah but nocrime.

“I see the oven is on. Chicken. MMmm.” I have a quick look inside. “Not good enough for you? Not good enough for your mother? I have got some of my things in my car and I am driving out of here.” I slink over to my stack of keyboards and I pick up my guitar and I plug it in. “OK, Linda, do not go driving anywhere. It has just gotten dark and the forecast is for drizzle forming black ice at night. You can not drive in the mountains on black ice. Please wait and think until morning.” “No!” The door is slammed closed on her leaving appropriately as a departing gibe from Linda. She is gone. I am relieved. Gone again. I am standing next to the glass balcony doors, with my guitar on my next, I open and stand playing the gated glass threshold of: in and out, and dry and wet, and light and dark, and cold and warm, here and gone, and a few minutes playing brings me to my liking.
The door bangs open. “Did you think I would leave and let this god-damned place burn down?” Linda flies at the knob and nearly twists the whole stove by it. I slowly remove my guitar and set it by my stand of synthesizers. “John, I was at the car and there are people in the parking lot; so, you better be careful or I am screaming. I am going on the balcony!” “No, please do not go out on the balcony, Linda.” I get scared that she will jump the half of one floor below drop to the ground because it is a half-hearted-type attempt that she would make. Shedding her skin of fall-coat on route she rushes with slaps of her feetsies’soles reaching crescendo in the two seconds it takes her to succeed the reach of the open balcony door. It is now sunset and the light backdrop of the apartment lights lights uP^ our living room interior like a giant TV screen on the outside of the building. As Linda steps the threshold of being “outside” I scoop her uP^ into my arms at shoulder height. I swing her and myself around to face the ample bed-like couch where I deposit the now-kicking-screaming-foaming at the mouth blonde. The hoist of this rampaging female by me is with little force or effort for me and this lift is warranted or else she is going to kick over my stack of electric synthesizers and amplifiers. As it is, when I rotate her direction of attack, she knocks over my guitar letting it fall flat to the floor where I unwittingly crunch its irreplaceable neck. I am trying to laugh with some absurd hope that her mood will revert to the joke that: she really is merit-full of laughter. The fucking bitch of a good OLE girl just screams blue murder to her preconceived and planned parking lot voyeurs, a pack of three after work pseudo-medical assistants of the wannabee cell phone heroes type. She bounces off the couch-bed and charges towards me as I turn from closing the glass door. I embrace her with cling arms and she retracts from this espousal seizure with vile violent twisting and thus causing the flimsy old seams, of her fashion foil thin foil material of slacks, to release under the strain of her efforts. Yes, amazing as it sounds, she nearly dashed right out of her pants. “Look what you did? You might as well rip them right off.” And then, she sinks in a slump to the floor. I remove the remnants and I slowly pick her like a sack of potatoes and I raise her uP^ like a babe and set her on the couch. I am thinking that she is safe now because she will not go out and drive on black ice with no pants on. Or would she?
I go to the bathroom for a pee when: “RCMP, open uP^.” I peek through the door eyepiece to see two, one of each cop-gender. The catch on the lock is hardly turned by me when the crash of a flung-open door hits me. I am shoved, football linebacker style, down the hall into the bathroom and into the bathtub by the fat RCMP kid who is growling: you fucking asshole at me and we have three witnesses and you are under arrest. For what is answered with assault and assault on who is answered with silence because they do not know whom. It is a warrant-less arrest. I have yet to do uP^ my pants zipper post peeing and I can not with my hands cuffed behind my back so I cause my attacker to comply and to my surprise he does and as he closes the fly he is mumbling at me: sexual assault, his fly was open. Meanwhile I peek down the hall to see Linda in panties doing her victim act with the good OLE cuddling of her from lady RCMP ass. Rights are mumbles also while I am being dragged out of the building by a twisting grip of the human handle being by MY bent backwards thumb. “You do not have to do that to my thumb. I am not resisting.” “Do you understand your rights?” Still being dragged I say “no” because he has not really addressed me with his chatter and barking. So, he says my rights again, over again.
“They said the trial would last about five hours. It took five minutes and she gave me five years.” The Vietnamese crab boat heroin smuggler for the Hell’s Angels is crying the blues to me as he awaits transport. “Shit man, you are going to be some uP^tight mother when you get out.” He is little, Asian, mouthy, and he is going to Indian ruled lock uP^ in an old most feared Fed pen. “You better have more than a pencil if you want to cop an attitude in Prince George.” We play cards until they come for him in the night. I pretend I am sleeping when he leaves and as he leaves he slips something under the corner of my mat. The pencil of protection is relayed by him to me and there is a little note that says fuck you. Loonie tunes trying to get through the bars keeps me awake until Mss. Ozzifer, B. Fife, interrogates me in my most needed sleep. Linda was in a flighty mood is all I have to say to her.
Morning prompt arraignment has me swearing the truth to God who is as innocent about this as myself. I have release on my word and I agree to stay away from Linda. I am assigned a lawyer, Peters. The morning is still new as I am punching the security code for my office when the alarm blows. The boss has changed the code. They can have no employee with a pending case for violent misdemeanor. I am fired and evicted from the company apartment for the end of the month. Nancy, my immediate owner/boss becomes so excited that I have not “cut her loose” as Nancy has advised about Linda being with me that she has a cerebral vascular accident in the form of a transient ischemic accident. I stay at home for two days brooding about my luck.
Tap tap tap, what is this now? The peephole on the door is not quite wide-angled enough as I see nothing and then there, yes, in a nervous pacing, is Linda. She seems anxious and undecided whether she should leave or tap tap tap some more. She returns to the unanswered door and re-initiates her entreat with a leaning of her cheek against the door, as I now only see the top of her head through the hole of peep, and she whispers the penetrating plea: “Let me in John. I have to talk to you.” “No I am not supposed to see you. You are trouble. Leave.” Yeah, now I am listening to Nancy butTt it is too late for me and for the stress that this loss of my office has caused her trouble and stroke. “John, open the door, it is very important, then I will leave.” I open uP^.
“Do not get near me; say what you have to say and then leave before I get more doom and grief out of you.” “John, I am pregnant; I know it is a miracle. I would not just say this to just man nipple ate you John. I saw a doctor. I am late. I am really pregnant.” I pick her by her waist and I lift her skyward much the same way that got me witnessed (TanXs Mrs.Hurl and pals) and with a twirl and a jump and a bounce we flop together in embrace on the couch-bed and we make love. I get uP^ to pee post sticky dicky and I see with the skill of the maternity nurse that I have old frank blood on my member. She has had as period recently. I say nothing about my discovery.
“I have to go to Texas. My father is ill there. I want you to stay here and lay down and be pregnant. You are such a high risk of miss-I-carriage, at your age, that you will not keep it if you do not take all precautions. The winter is for you is to be bedrest and pregnant. Spring will bring me back to help you set uP^ for baby.” I am giving her the advice that I would give anyone with a similar medical history. “OK, John, anything you say. I will do it. I will be careful. She sneaks away into a rainy night. I get a two-liter bottle of beer and I start to load the Nova for storage. I will leave by ship and then I will hitch down Van Isle to the mainland ferry at Nanimo to Vancouver where I will get a week bus pass for Brownsville, Texas. The planned trip should take five days.
“It is me. I am phoning ‘cause come morning I am gone on BC Ferries. I am leaving Nova behind in storage with my shit inside. Do you want to come?” I am a little too drunk to be calling so late. Linda is in a shelter for crisis so she is not to say much to me as she thinks that the phones are monitored. “I will go with you when you come back for court. I will help you with that. I will not tell anyone.” “Tell what?” She makes little sense to me. I tried I am thinking. “Oh well, stay pregnant and I will see you at the end of March for court. Bye sweets.” “Bye John.” Is faint to hear as usual as her spirits dictates. Despite my elation of hope of securing a male or even a female heir I am saddened that Linda may or may not believe that it is necessary to deceive me with pregnant lies to keep me.
There is only one hour for me at daybreak to deliver Nova to its winter resting spot under the tarp and for me to travel from the storage yard to the departing ferry terminal for the daily nine-o’clock am. Sailing. I have no luggage for ease of transport. The Inside Passage is a panorama of splendor of land, sea air, clothed in creatures and plants. The lounge is friendly and singing is in order as certain guitarists provoke the mood. Before disembarking I score a ride from the ferry down the Island to Nanimo Ferry for Horseshoe Bay, mainland BC, Vancouver City, with a dude recently “kicked-out” by his wife. We occupy ourselves sliding, down the coastal Island highway, in five hundred miles of conversation about volatility of females of the second species of Human.
The tiredness of the long day bleeding into a busy city night is shook off me with the anticipation of excitement previewed by my jacket hanging bus ticket pocketed while seated in the sleaziest skid strip bar while I am sucking suds until my next departure time. Downtown Van is displaying the remnants of the World’s Fairgrounds as a backdrop for the marauding-pepper-spay-blasting (of young debilitated, with low alcohol tolerating, female eyes) cops in the streets at closing time. This is the time of my leaving of this country’s border a few miles away. Bar closed, I walk by the Mcdonald garbage bin jumping with rats that commute between the can and the tables of picnic with their paper wrapped prizes of food morsels left by hordes of wasters and hoarders that come to this most modern and scientific Architectural extravaganza of decadent display for the world to see before during and after this fair on my way to the bus depot.

Dead Dad

Knife In MY Heart

Tanks TanXs father tank driver
Innoncent too in rolling tracks
Win or die freedoom in hope today
Spastic conscience colon caustic
Skillful liquid dated nation
Really dearest tyrant democracy
Mirrored murderer seeks son
She and he have nothing to say
Orphan lucy cchild war man
Guess who your fathers sosns
Children barely geriatric need peace
In five years I may be some body
Let us join commune mists cadaverous
No in or out doors keep us out
Celebrate being in the woods
Faces of fascist façade of vote
Sons uP^ bringing uP^ rising good
You know how you want to live
I need good sex food and fun
What time of the year is this fall
Under delicious delicacy is shit
Hanging speared uP^side down man
He alone respects the DEAD
Drink your dangerous whine
I think tomorrow is going to be
Who knows a beautiful DAY
One of us remain stabbed
Ha and ha and ha ha too
Toss house of cards at horse in rain
Life in sewer with sodden eyes
Come from sun to those in cave
Dear reader believe me now
I am not able to change a thing
So have the party minister
Sing nameless song eh major
Got to get back there to the garden
Whistling train passes on track
Break the line and dirty laundry
Drunk will dance with grieving widow
Violins march with rolled uP^ flag
Joining them I pull the knife out
Now I only lonely plug the hole

Bus Rider

Tunnel and under the Fraser to the crossing of the Van/Blaine border is where the bus first stops with a rocking swaying whistling screech. I have little difficulty. I am legal with documents and a family destination. I am of no burden to the American people as the US immigration announces for others to hear. Seattle is a sunrise sleepless stroll around last night’s littered station for me. I re-enter the bus in a zombie trance. Open morning rolling Oregon countryside is assaulted with a fierce trans-Pacific cross wind of mega-excessive (for bus travelling) force. The wide side of the bus sails along with wind pushing East when we want South. It shakes and leans and rocks and puts the bus into a weaving dual lane course that is a wise credit to our driver to keep us in between the ditches. And he does. City slows the gale. Portland is reached safely with delay. Ah, roller coaster Earth is eXactly what I am on. As a Canadian I am shy to the unfolding blend of the races this for south as we are not accustomed to this cultural collage of humanity types. I fit with the Ukrainians, English and Dutch with my heart close to Indian first peoples. This night the battle is fatigue-unrequited.
Wooden crosses wired for grapes greets my uprising head’s window smeared view of Valley. Dead and piled old vines and bushes’ trunks wait to be burned in the shadow of the new crosses’ occupants, the re-seeded grapes’ saplings of next years’ production-hopes. I admire advanced agriculture that is so ancient of methods. Modernity laps at the bowl of this valley, and the next.
City of lights and nights of lights not to be separated from the stars in distinction is the famed nocturnal skyline of LA. Ride the giant snake. Two hundred and fifty miles of why the fuck is this not fenced in and out? Graffiti defiance and street dwellers and citizens of what the fuck did you say to me challenge my simple where are you going. What? A beach? Where? There is no beach for most. Sleeping the edge of concrete sub freeway beam and pissing down the smooth cement edge for adequate drainage and sanitary cardboard is viewed by me at each under the overhead passing. Drinking processed sewage is the brown smog aired topic of conversation in this city’s atmosphere of mass psychology. Oh, so, it is here that they have Charlie still locked up after he has served his life. Oh, these are the new casinos that help prevent high rollers from leaving the State. Oh, this little Apache girl is hemorrhaging blanket-less on the bus because they discharged her after twenty-four hours post-delivery of confined fetal products of her unwanted womb. Baby seems fine. “Driver, she will not tell you butTt get her off the bus at a hospital now.” And he does. Passing of questionnaire notes, demanding name and address for witnesses, by a potential claimant of lawsuit against the bus company is scoffed at by most yet he, the scam dude, merely needs a couple of co-liars.
Descending the come on down come down from LA is early evening. Half color and half-black adjustments of rods and cones fill my visual imagining through the front bus window with dessert horizon and I am liking the sparseness of humanity on and off the bus. The driver, the bus, the passengers, the road, the wind and the peripheral parameters of all awareness seems to release LA and I 5 corridor unto the beginnings of the long night of night-road-driving of I-10. Eons of Apache ghosts are whipped as dry new snow off the road by rear bus turbulence and blown sands. Coyotes are chasing the last lonely Elk of his primitive herd that has survived desert human arrival. He, the buck, is as big as the driver may have heard about but never seen although he has passed through here all of his extensive driving career. “Any other big game?” I involve myself with late night conversation with our driver for our mutual benefit, his alertness and my adventurous imaging. “No, just the two legged variety. Speak any Spanish?” “No.” I think he thinks that I am a coyote-smuggler. He is Mex/Am and his bi-cultural experiences lead him to certain basic assumptions or so I am thinking that he is thinking and I probably am not thinking too well so late at night. The bus roars of motor and of chatter into the sun rising on the skyline of the next brown cloud of urbanization, Phoenix.
The university campus is sprawling with fake-adobe that is inter-coursed with the downtown commerce and offices. SanFran clones of cellular and Indian fabric prints stroll and strut post quitting-time and prior repast-planning, the vacant busy vacating downtown time. The highway out of town exit is circled a couple of times by our new novice driver and finally I state: “We passed that entrance a few times now.” and he passes it again to circle one more time to take the road of my intentional hint. He offers an amplified apology for the wasted one half of one hour. We depart under the brown evening haze of the brown clouds outer perimeter into the clear night of first stars that are probable satellites magnified by their being on the sun-set-already distant land fading into the sky horizon of mixed rods and cones. In unison once again for two evenings in a row all our accompanying elements seem to be in sync with the release of AAHHHhhhhh, finally out of there.
The farther out is the fewer people and once again I find myself in the desert night awake with stinking feet and four days of sliding the concrete snake of American Idolatry in the form of sacrificed earthen surface of everything that has its place to: “fuck your place and let the bossman friend of some politician have US, us, build a highway.” I imagine a negro saying white shite. Superior gender has first to disdain a race of genders prior to thinking of slapping whatever other gender in the factual face. I am riding, dreaming and looking for that fabled Elk and I know that this next stretch of nearly vacant desert is a more likely hiding-place for this last of the herd than the last place of the fabled bus driver sighting of this ONE.
Why, why oh why is it all ways in the middle of night that the worst awakenings happen? Some last-chance-Texaco with one light on welcomes our screech of brakes with the slam of open door to closed brings in the dredges of Humanity, the Spanish speaking Anglo with excellent pronunciations, who guides, murders, and usurps his back-backed clients, the American Mafia youth trainees of contraband importation. And then he gets on the bus in Nowhere for his escape to the white water rafting of his next tour of crime. He joins in our front of the bus conversations with the driver him and me. I am thinking that I would not want to stay in USA long enough to be naturalized into someone like him. He is a poor representative of white in a brown place.
The starry night of desert roll’n is mostly uninterrupted till distant less than frequent sightings of well windmill pump and trough of feed and trough of water that locates and limits sparse settlements in barnyard fashion. Many are deserted yards and many merely a destination for some one scratching butTt his marks on the ground are quickly recovered by the harsh elements. Yet I think there is someone there, maybe. Maybe in the next windmill well home there will be people and livestock. These thoughts greet me as the morning’s sun comes up^. And then, what do you know, midday through Laredo. Pleasant, populated, refreshing with new passengers boarding, is few indicators that we are approaching the limits of the fabled Valley of there really is no valley of the border river Rio Grande. Little border towns begin bumping boundaries every fifteen to thirty miles apart; each having their boots handmade with some surplus boot production luckily available at factory outlets. TeXass boots and MeXteX boots my mind is singing when I gaze floor-ward. My feet are really stinking now and I plan to do the sink scrub at the next station stop.
Some fart old but he does not know it dressed in tight jeans starts his conversation with me by saying: “Wait till you see what they have got for you in murder city Matamoros. Do you know about the Satan cult that passed through UTB? Yeah Matamoros girls would entice campus men over there across for sacrifice mutilation and sick shit. You go across and see what they have for you, little, nice, young.” He says it again with more emphasis. I wish I could exchange seats. The crowed bus lopes from side road cantina bus stop back unto the highway and back for more stops. The upcoming night, perhaps midnight, should see me phoning for big Art and Win to pick me. “What is downtown Brownsville like at night.” I am getting anxious about putting my elderly parents at harm by picking me up. Perhaps I should rent a room and phone them tomorrow. “Used to be safe, now early evening it is the hookers and later it is the fags and transsexuals, and real late the cocaine coyboys come out. Someone shot an old lady who sold pop out of her cooler on her porch. She lived there all her life. Now people carry guns.” I decide to phone but to stay close to the bus depot.
I sit silent and tired all the rest of the way and the only thing in sight along the dark roadside that lifts my heart being a sign pointing the way to SPI. I am nearly there after five days from the southern end of Alaska at BC. I have traveled five thousand more miles because of Linda; that makes fifteen thousand and I have yet to go back for court! Oh well, it is not till Spring, around the time my parents leave for Canada; or it is just before. I really need this winter with them. Pop is sicker.
The night roof covering the Brownsville, Elizabeth Ave., bus arrival parking area is little more lit than the old dark back lane that it shares. The outside pay phone is here, across from the dumpster, that I know there is a skinny man laying and watching me from there. “Hi, it is me, I am at the downtown bus station so come and get me.” Pop is not a talkative person but what he says he means. “I will come now with your mom and the neighbors, they know where to go.” “Thanks pop, later.” Soon, we are guided back home by a delightful elderly retired couple who are Canadians also, like us who live and associate with many other Canadians. These people are snowbirds or winter Texans that Texans will say can never be Texan. Immediately our verbal tour is interrupted by pop: “The cops are very bad around here. Usually we never go out at night. It is not safe. When you hear the local news stories you will know what I mean. I can tell by the fact that every parking lot and street has glass in it.”
The needle point stitch fabricated by my mother sign at our home’s door reads: Visitors Welcome Relatives by Appointment. I enter with pop holding the door and saying: “This is how the other half lives.” It is a modest mobile home in a retirement fifty-five-and-over-resort. “It is great.” I reply. “It is like the day after they dropped the bomb. Quiet. There are only a few tiny gray bunnies hopping around at night sampling floral foliage. Ah, Winterhaven night-life. I have the room at the back. My washed feet are dragged with fatigue into the first bed sleep in almost one week.




Boca Chica Van

At home, in Canada, Pop and I would drive the country park-like-roads with some road-pop and we would explore. In my absence mom and pop do similar discovery and one of their favorite places is Boca Chica beach. We are going. The Island, with its strips of sand, hotels, concrete, and snakes of crowds of people, is the opposite in development from the other side of the Brownsville channel to the Rio Grande. This strip of a little more dirty-with-seaweed-beach (than SPI) of Boca Chica mainland (meaning small mouth in Spanish) is the reclusive contemplative place to go. It is also good that this beach has a reputation of wets, murders, surveillance from all sorts of governmental agencies from: the air, the land, the sea, and the outer-space satellite, and there are weird “locals” practice-shooting. We like it here because, other than us and a few surf fisherman, the beach is usually vacant of humanity for most of its five miles of surface length between the jetties at the South end of the Island to the Rio at the South end of Boca Chica. The story of a hurricane wiping Boca Chica’s small mouth settlement right off the coast gives even more humor to my response to: “where are you from” with “Boca Chica” because anyone who really knows knows that there is nothing at Boca Chica. So it would be strange if I were really from there.
The end of the narrow curving road through a dry and partially dry flood plain is the Atlantic Ocean lapping at Boca Chica beach. This ride affords many dazzling comments from mom about Yucca blossoms and their flowering schedules and their eatable qualities. Just before reaching the ocean is a small failed housing development for Portuguese buyers sold homes by a failed elderly Portuguese realtor Lady who neglected to surmount the problem of fresh water for her housing development. She built and sold the homes to unwitting immigrants anyway. They have almost all left their new homes empty and for resale but those who know will not buy because it is a long haul for water. Her, bosslady Realtor’s, show home is vacant and separate from the rest of the homes. The other homes are cement and stucco and brick. Her home is cedar shakes and timbers. We laugh at passing this wasted development of land and housing while saying that she has not heard of termites. But, in a minute, over the last rise of a small wetted dune, our chortling turns into awesome sighs with our view of crashing surf, bobbing waves, and demarcation of where sky joins water on the distant African via Florida keys still invisible shores. Yearned for but yet to be seen as it would take our hearts a small time more to take wing over the entire ocean surface to survey both sides as our spirits now seem to dictate. We stick to this ocean side with our present re-directed attentions to this shoreline. Turning left toward the Rio is decided and negotiated with right turn heading south briefly then coming to stop for the day of peace. This is our private cozy spot as mom declares it in the name of deGroot. Our empire has earned increase.
Pop parks the Dodge mini-van parallel to the shoreline and diagonal to the angle of the in-coming waves. Now we have shade provided by the side length of van. Van doors are opened to allow the cooler ocean breeze open passage through the van and unto the sand-laying relax-ers. Reachable cooler of never-ending Yank donkey piss, as mom calls it, is at our heads on the threshold of the van floor and door. Interspersed with the iced canned suds are sandwich-makings that mom folds to us in timely fashion in-between openings of another aluminum tabbed flap of the cheapest beer that we have accustomed ourselves. Mom, bad ankle and all of its ample burdens, seeks treasure where the tide has left deposits of small shells, tar lumps, and miscellaneous items under vast wet arrest: float-ables, sink-ables in watery suspension, and sunken and bottom dragged. She returns with the bottom of a shoe and she exclaims: “Look! Lost sole.” “Go find the other one.” Pop says and looks at me with a smirk hidden in his last swallow of sandwich. I nod back yeah man with my eyes.
We do not talk mucho, as it has been only a few months since I have visited them. It was when Linda did not show up after I drove her on Ninga from BC to Manitoba and returned to BC within hours by airplane while leaving me for days wondering when she is coming for me at he home of my parents. My parents saw and helped me to follow her back there, to BC, invited by her request by her saying the College “has a letter for you” about your potential nursing graduating class. I returned to BC to a note on a box, a desperate phone call from the runaway Linda, and a new re-location of dooming arrest that is no more or less predictable than the outcomes of that and this beach debris. What some call debris the deGroots call tide washed seaweed. They, mom and dad, are empathetic toward my predicament of Linda instability with taciturn contemplative-ness for my predicament. “Linda says she is pregnant. Can you believe it. She, Linda, bankrupted her X, that P o’S of a fag wife-beater, with her fertility interventions and after all her futile attempts for motherhood she says she is pregnant by me. I have heard this news from her before, every month, and she thinks she is but never is pregnant.” While telling my parents this likely false news we all have desire for deGroot heir and grand-heir and I am thinking that this depressing disappointment of barren results of sex increases Linda’s levels of loads of anxieties and fixations. We three, mom dad and I, all knowing Linda, and all wanting a new baby around, shake our heads almost imperceptibly in agreement to our unspoken assent of I do not believe it is true ; she is not pregnant. I say nothing about the past untimely menstruation blood on my dick while I am thinking about it as I am telling my parents about, what should be for a normal person, GOOD NEWS, butTt, because it is news from and about Linda it is not. Just not, there is no more just not: not true , not pregnant, not sane, not a mother, not reality, not here, not what I want to think about now. Well I tell mom and pop about BC court, Linda’s health, and my plan for the winter. They have mixed feelings; they are happy I am here and they are unhappy about Linda. We are all still grieving about Deb’s mode of marital eXit, “I am leaving you!.” click. And Linda is still Mrs. P o’S Hurl.
The chapel at the resort is Anglo to the max. The Rev. Clyde is most engaging and he is a neighbor. The park has six hundred owners behind their gate and two neighboring elderly sisters are the two only mexican/american here, at Winterhaven. They are schoolteachers who are tired of “kiddie-break-ins” at their previous homes perpetuated by their students and associates. When Christine, the elder sister of spinsterhood good loving her puppy, moved her mobile onto the lot she phoned the cops on her neighbors even before the unit and its keys were in her possession; it was still being hauled on the road when they glimpsed inside. This was serious crime for Christine to report on her new Anglo neighbors. It, the mobile, was still being un-hooked when some curious neighbors peeked over there. Her younger hag sister, not merry Mary is just dumped. Both are obese and cantankerous. Neighbors, most here are amazing in amazing ways. Entitlement in many realms is an operative and motivating principle for these of so many years’ young and enjoying. ButTt then there are those elderly here that are dying. Dying and they know it and dying and they think young. And those like Ed who asks me: “Are you still here?” And I reply: “Are you still alive?” And then he dies. ButTt: Ed’s oldest daughter denies “At” least Esther, the shark of five recent widow-hoods, estate. Good Ole catfight. Winterhaven board members are yearly elected in the strangest of politicking of seniors’ issues of popularity. Therefor the Park sometimes getting an X-con for a manager or a fireman for a treasurer or a FBI retired for engineer. Who knows how things run? These people are entitled to be goofy. Morning outdoor sunrise scene maybe a seventy degrees of the fair in height poodle puppy being walked with pink ear muffs on all ears of both prancing dears. deGroots are having fun too. “Well my work is done for the day. One of you two has to turn it off tonight”. My father announces to us sleepers every morning as he is first to put the coffeepot pot on “on”.
Mom goes to the rescue. Two young jeepster girlies, from the Island, make the tragic mistake of parking their four-wheeler too far from the wet sand and too close to the dry sand as determined by tidal terminal destinations. And they spin their wheels down to the inescapable dry ruts of flowing sand being spun-out of the rut only to be replaced immediately by more captivating dry sand. Sisyphus strikes again. Mom grabs her near empty cooler and rushes to the ocean to fetch water for the ruts. Within a few trips she has hardened the sand with moisture enough for the truck to jump out of its hole. The girls are ecstatic with their new knowledge of how to negotiate this beach terrain. Pop and I smirk because we are well knowing of the elder dear’s ingenuity. I am wanting to climb aboard the college girls’ passenger seat butTt some things such as family time to-get-her is of a higher rating.
Winter progresses in the similar manner as our van-days at Boca Chica. We return to our lonely sea weed-settled beach almost bi-weekly. Pop wakes each morning with: “I turned the fan on, so, my work is done for the day. Someone else will have to turn it off tonight when we go to bed.” Similar repeated jokes are endured playfully all winter. Pop has brought his outdoor thermometer , large and round with a picture of a giant buck and needle of pointing to how many degrees below any scale you would like to use. After his fan duty he sticks his head outside and he looks at the buck and states: “shorts day.” Or, he states: “Put your pants on.” “We” have pool volley ball; it has no score and everyone must cheat by yanking down on the net when needed or by raising the net with a high blood pressured jump when needed. The score is always 0 to 0 and we all win and lose. Some players die; after all it is an elder’s resort; there are two types of elders: those dying and those thinking they are healthy (use it or lose it and lose it when you use it). Some of these two “kinds” resent my mere half of a centurion age of youth. Entitlement comes with age even for the good Ole girlies.
I am reluctant to approach the tonic month of spring in late May. Pop and mom have to leave back for Canada in early May and I cannot accompany them because I must return for Linda , who is still P o’S wife Hurlie girlie damned false court date to which I have already traveled, to no avail, over ten thousand miles. Now another five thousand miles is demanded. I am poor and my bus station sink-feet-washing-bus riding begins with much apprehension for me. Why worry? It happened during our weekly grocery-shopping trip. Pop got so out of breath, SOB on exertion (I call it: “sore on bum”, as a nurses joke) that we abandoned our shopping for escorting dad to his sanctuary of nebulization mists of meds of many Rx-tribes. I have only three weeks left on the “relatives by appointment; friends welcome anytime” when I hear, that very middle of night, in my sleep: “John, John get John,” faintly called by pop to mom as she is already rushing to my room and I am already pulling up my pants. He is doubled over at the side of the bed unable to breathe. I give him brief useless chest pummeling therapy and I correctly decide to “grab and run”. The hospital is two miles away. Pop weighs two hundred and fifty pounds and I feel my back return to its oil rig worker’s strength. I toss him in the side door and go. We enter and are expected to do paper work and dad whispers to the male RN: “A person could die here.” The RN agrees. We rush for the crash cart, the respirator and theO2 mask nebulizer with meds loaded. I begin the mist and the other RN blows his vein with aborted attempt for some quick prednisone or something IV. Blue bloating of his face is mixed with sweat of death and a look of why me now. “Intubation could kill him, and once on the respirator we can only support him so long so you decide.” With all his super war hero strength he gets some air out and another in: I say: His one lung was shot out in the war with a large shell that went right through him; he made it then and he will again. I am banging on a protective towel placed on his doubled over back and he in and X-hails atmosphere in his continual battle to live for us again. “We won’t intubate him, he is coming back, the meds are working.” I agree with an assured glance at dad. (Typing stops to wipe my inner wet lenses of eyeglasses). I am so worried about leaving them for my trip to BC.
Emergency message is received by me from retrieval from the resort cork-board pin-filled message board. It reads: Phone Linda right away. And I do. “What are you trying to do? Steal my car. Where is the registration? I know you took it.” “Where are you?” I ask. “BC, the Island by Victoria; I will write you with the address.” I told you to go to your mom’s and lay down and be pregnant because you are such a high risk at your age and as an unproven breeder; and what the fuck do you do?” “I took the ferry for the Inside Passage a day after you left and I lost it in the toilet. I am not pregnant any more; do not worry I won’t tell the judge.” I can not help seeing that old menses on my sticky dicky when I pulled out of her that very last time in my mind’s long term memory ‘s eyes. You fucking liar is what I am thinking and now she is accusing me of car document theft. “You have those papers; I will come and expect an apology when I get there before court. Did you get it for lab analysis like you know products of conception are to be sent to pathology?” I ask: “NO. I had to look at it.” “Oh yeah! Right.” I know she is lying. Was it tissue or clot? You know the difference; you took a maternity rotation at nursing school. I have worked a year at delivering babies in the Arctic and you know I know.” I can not believe these BS. If you were so pregnant and wanted so very much to have a baby then why would you get on a rough ocean going ship for days with all the doors sliding and slamming with the rocking of the ship? Trying to abort? I do not think so. I think and you know the truth: you lying fucking bitch nurseie man-nipple-ate-ing cunt, you fucking cunt. I will see you at your place in Victoria. Rent for me a bed and breakfast close by because I am not sure I can even look at you. And find your own paper, it is there, or is that just another excuse to hassle me. I made most payments on your car so I want you to drive me to the end of the Island so I can get to court. Your prosecutor will fly you there.” She gives me her angry whine-scream: “No, that is my car and you are not getting it for anything.” Click.
Three weeks of fighting for his breath pass for my father before we hug and embrace as he and mom deliver me to the bus station. I am on my way, via Linda’s, wifette’s apartment in Victoria, to make the same return journey of five days of stinking feet followed by lengthy ship passage close to coastal Alaska to the terminal, sea port terminal of second deep-most waters port in the world, Prince Rupert to keep my court case date with the good Ole Girl Mss. Kranz. My court appointed attorney has already apologized to me about this elderly hag by saying: “Sorry, she is all we have; with any luck by the time you get here maybe she will be on holidays and you will get a real Judge. Since my arraignment, till now one and one half of one year has gone by. I do not want to verify, for any potential reader, docket #, summary offence of domestics (maximum sentence of six months and/or two thousand dollar fine). I have all truths within this writing of bitterness intact for any libelous claims documented with original transcripts now and for later in this true tale of horror of our iron cage of litigious society. Trust me these is not a story. This/these is/are indisputable fact/s.
Five days of sink–stink-feet-scrubbing brings me to Vancouver ferry terminal destined for the Island, docking at Victoria. It is too long to walk from the terminal to down town bed location and I am exhausted. I lounge on deck, for the hour voyage, watching a community of some thirty ship following black and white tall dorsal finned romping killer whales; I am thinking jeessse these guys got it more to-get-her than we “youmansandhermans” . I disembark and walk as far as I can with fatigue; which is maybe two miles just far enough to be out of sight of any roving security watchdogs of patrol car variety, a cross breed of cop and snot and I crawl into a storm drainage pipe under the highway to sleep until daylight, a better hitch-hiking time. And I do get a ride in the morning to the nearest city bus stop.


Note Can Cry Vancouver Crawl

The bed and breakfast down town has a cocktail lounge and I have coins enough for a few beers. Sitting at the table next to me are four just-of duty stud fucking bitches of nurses still in who knows what germ infested uniforms? (A big no-no at the nursing school where I come from; you have a locker, you bring laundered uniforms to work, you change from street clothes into your uniform and you keep your fucking bitch micro biology in the damned hell hole of a hospital where it belongs). They are drunk accusing me of being drunk and the waitress asks me to retire to my room. I am only scruffy and dead tired; they are the professionals. So, I tell all who can hear and I “do” have a large man’s loud voice that has difficulty whispering below the level of ACDC: “I am a RN too butTt I leave my uniform secure and I do not wear it in public after work. Do they do that around here?” Then one by one these interlocutors call me a liar. Then in walks Linda, she takes me to my room. “I can not be seen with you my prosecutor tells me; butTt here is a key, it is across the street first apartment left and ground level.” She is already taking her clothes off for assumed sex (that I only have taught her by virtue of her faggot piece of shit husband could only puke trying to get it uP^ with her). And I give it to the hungry for sex long time estranged wife of P o’S Hurl of the Brandon wannabe mafia Hurlies. I sneak into her place for who knows why I am sneaking. I suppose it is her paranoia of getting caught in her own lies: “If I am so dangerous then why am I invited here?” She has me hide in her apartment for about two weeks and then she consents to drive me the five hundred miles to the end of the Island so I can cross and traverse the Inside Passage to the place of court (once again). I now have no money yet Linda owes me for car payments; she gave me enough to get across on ship and no more.
The old boarding house has a corner with a sheet hung around for thirty dollars a day and this is my room for the night before court. I thought about sleeping in a concrete pipe but northern BC by Alaska is a very damp cold and I feared for my asthmatic compromised lungs; so I stayed with the deserted welfare moms and the released prisoners, and the de-institutionalized insane, at the boarding house. I have a backpack with my suit for court. No sleep is for me. I am to give my fire extinguisher-truths in the morning after travelling five more thousands of miles. My courts appointed attorney say to me in the start of the trial: “They will hear Linda’s testimony first; she has come at great expense and she has to return immediately. Then they will hear from the parking lot reporters of parking lot cell phoning of cops. Then, finally they will get to you.
“He picked me over his head and through me on the pull out couch bed in the living room and my foil slacks ripped.” “Are these them.” “Yes I was wearing them.” “Did he hit you?” “No, John has never hit me. It was awful. I told him that there were people in the parking lot and I wanted to go on the balcony. That is when he scooped me up tossed me and on the couch. I know that she first left with her car packed; she then saw the potential witnesses. Then she returned screaming while set down my guitar that I was playing. Fearing she would jump onto the half one story onto the wooden planter below and then drive on the black ice that a warning had been posted, I had to lift her because her needless, planned, acted kicking and screaming was going to knock over my tall rack of keyboards, electric amps, mixers, and other synthesizer equipment. So, I had to raise her above the obstacle for her own safety. “Next case. I have heard enough for now. We are backlogged today. Other witnesses must be rescheduled. Mrs. Hurl will have to come by air another time. I see Mr. deGroot has appeared so he is free to go. Next case.” Judge Kranz is trying to carry on a maniacal schedule without considering my travelling distances and Mr. lawyer, Peters makes no objection. Fifteen thousand miles are traveled by me to no satisfaction without one word said by me other than “not guilty” at the arraignment some year and a half before. Now I have to return to meet my parents back in Manitoba (another twenty-five hundred miles away with no money. I go to the pawnshop and lose a small gold bracelet for the price of another night behind the sheet. In the morning, on the message board is a message: “Your father died, the funeral is tomorrow in Winnipeg.” The note is unsigned as I assume the RCMP would do such a brutal thing; I know where the note came from. My family got a hold of Linda and she told the RCMP and they waited until my time (that never happened) before they posted the bad news. How humanitarian? I go to the shit can in the dilapidated flop house and moan and cry on my knees until a crazy patron busts in the door, he stuffs some Valium and Zanax in my mouth and he takes me to the stripper bar and says: “My father died during our argument so I kicked the school door and they gave me a year in prison for the sneaker print and then they released me without shoes because they were in evidence.” I gave him my tiger claw from my stay in Sumatera set in gold and Chinese Jade and told him to get home with the pawn.
There is only one last flight out of town for the funeral so I go to the legal authorities in the name of Mimo Ciccone; He makes the appropriate calls to my family. They prepay an airline ticket with a stop in Van and an arrival time across the city of only one-hour before the funeral. I wait to leave after thanking Mr. Ciccone verbally and in writing for helping me with these near impossible arrangements.
The plane stops over in Vancouver where I find myself pushing my face around in a crawling position on the busy bar-room floor when security in the stature of a gentleman approaches and asks me: “Something wrong?” “Father died I am going to the funeral.” I say with much slur of voice and slithering of body on the floor. They, the airline people, escort me to the chosen seat in first class and they tolerate me as bereaved, I get off the plane in Winnipeg and I am met by my brother Glen; we hug and he says: IT starts in an hour and it is right across the city and it is snowing like a bugger out there.” And I have no overcoat. We arrive to find everyone waiting for us, hundreds, all watching as I first and last view pop’s dead body. A touch and kiss is applied by me to his cool handsome form as my sisters help me to my seat where I have Athena, dear daughter Athena, on one side of and mom on the other side. I am Here of mind. The singer, a cousin’s wife is an angel, the minister is inaccurate, the graveside is cold and stormy (two feet of snow is falling per hour!). My Aunt, pop’s sister, the family’s eldest, is on my arm next to the Earth’s opening and she says: “John, do you want to get in there?” I remember uncle Al’s funeral in my youth and grandpa did jump in there. I hug her, she is the last in the genetic line (I have no heir, Linda is barren in most ways). I am thinking that if I had not left Brownsville to come for Linda’s bullshit court crap I may have been there for him, to save him as before again from his respiratory attack and failure. Mom says she can still hear him wheezing in the dark: “Get John. Get John.” As he did before. I have the ring back that I gave pop so I promptly had to pawn it for a leather jacket. I hit a few pleasure domes and dooms and I make use of my return flight ticket as far as Van for the ferry back to Linda and Victoria, and Linda’s new hiding place for me. I have decided: I have moved and relocated at least six times for the sake of Linda, NOW, I am about to insist that this is my move now and I or we am or are going to Texas. I am no longer proud to be a Canadian, the son of a well decorated war hero who took a large shell right through his body thereby removing much of his left lung and four of his ribs, five years overseas, WW11, the man whom the VA cheated out of pension by calling it a mere shoulder wound, and they cheat his wife now out of her, mom’s widow pension: I mean do you not think that a hole big enough to put your fist through, through his body may have shortened his life? Then he farms vegetables for market garden breathing in DDT from a chest held dust blower has helped his one bad partial lung and one smokers other lung. Canada, the country that educates me butTt cannot employ me (unemployment, overqualified, cutbacks, recessions, and not the right pig being called to the booty trough.
Canada, the court system that pressures me through their delay and delays and years and thousands of miles and inconvenience for me in order to convict by avoiding any evidence on my behalf. No evidence given on by behalf is had. Canada, with the police system of freedooom of "information-act" while they spy on citizens privacy with dirty RCMP tricks. Canada, the developers of the third world that sends officials around the world to live like kings on plastic government cards of wealth while squandering on political trade-offs like: you buy our nuclear reactor and pass the bottled water and here is some wheat that we cheated some of our farmer out of for token tax breaks when they do not get paid enough for their crops to be able to use their tax breaks. It is my “move” now, I am insisting, USA is no better or worse (butTt I suspect more worse and never better). I am moving underground for a time: under a landscape of scholarly pursuits. I get there again, Victoria, to the place of Linda’s next move, a country of hiding place for me for a while she does live-in home care for a couple of clients. I tell her that this is that “flexible” John is firm. I must once again travel half way across Canada to return my mighty Nova to the family Motel in Manitoba for storage, close to Ninga. So, I blast two thousand miles. no oil needed, non-stop. Then, I am going back to Victoria by bus to get Linda for the move to Texas but first some after noon draft in chairs the pop and me frequented; this is where we meet a dude and dudette waiting for the same bus. We drink and he suggests one of his twisters of pre-departure and minutes before getting on the bus that the three of us smoke a fat one. Fifteen minutes later, on the highway, in the tiny bus lavatory, I sit for one hour, regardless of other passengers’ needs, my head hung, blasted and exhausted in every sense of the word; I am loosing track of the miles of trials now, yet I sure the calculations will come to me later. I return to my seat to hear from the dude: “It does that to me sometimes.” And I reply that it is not from the pot. I am sick of grief.
I ARRIVE (back to the killer whales playground between Van and Van) Linda does not want to go to Texas now. She is leaving me more often now: she is leaving me one, one and one half of one hundred times, or move. I lost count. She keeps accusing me of going out with women rather than hiding as she thinks I am told to by the court notion of “no contact”; I am not going out. Linda thinks her boss is following her around in a blue van, or something (makes no sense to me). She thinks he, her boss, her husband’s spy, someone has her bugged. I am still firm with Linda for this first time and only time with Linda; her moves sucks, they are too motivated by her past with piece of shit, she plays the rat race that I do not and never will. I need (and it takes all) just to keep Linda to-get-her. And moving day comes:

Return Trip Of Doom


Moving Day on Moving Day

No sleep excites the sun’s rise
Fill and burn the pre-break-fast garbage barrel
Neighbor’s phoning the cops of fire
All ways a stress full time
She wants not to go go to
Moan eases monies
Worry
Better not to stay to leave
Long drives into the heart
Land of hope job of Job
Soon noon
Be go one gone or two
She is late and begs me to stop
No motel till we arrive atTt Motel
Next night’s day is here

Linda is in a foul fighting mood, it is a mood of hers worse than I have seen: it is her fighting mood while travelling. Normally I would accommodate her wishes, but this time I am picking up the reins of this runaway team of horses that are pulling in two die-rections. We get to mom’s motel, two thousand miles of my non-stop driving and Linda is so tired she begs me to stop and lose a day: I do not.
Far into the prairie field, a farm bungalow is conspicuous on the horizon. The map shows an USA/Canada border crossing near to us on this road and to Linda and I “Amazement” reveals that this is it: Border of hope and land of dreams long lost since the southern American Indians ran to Canada for their lives. No one is home but an uniformed man riding in a golf cart with a lap dog lap placed approaches our parked car at his house. “How long are you going to be in the USA?” he asks us as his little companion sniffs out our car through the open car door when I disembark for a drink of water. “Hhmmmm. Tastes like a blend of herbicides and pesticides, lots of BIG agriculture going on here and the water table must be high, you should have your water tested.” I am trying to be helpful but he looks at me like I am a kook. He does not know I have studied advanced agriculture. “Just going to Jamestown for shopping.” I lie because immigration without documentation is frowned upon by these officials’ denying entrance into United Snakes if they think you are coming to look for work. This is the reason why we bring nothing with us for our going to Texas because we do not want to “tip-off” the border agents of our real plans being our long term occupation and education. For a moment the little furry lap dog sniffs our sweet sweat ripe car interior with no alert. Good. I am called by the immigration officer to enter the station: “I see on the computer that you have a case pending in Canada. What is up with that?” “Nothing sir, it is like an American misdemeanor but in Canada we call “it” a summarial offence. I am innocent and the trial is delayed for a year or so.” “OK, have a nice time in the United States.”
We cruise to the nearest town and stop at a store for beer. “The closest beer is eighteen miles south.” The clerk tells me all about their “dry county”. I pull up to a bar in the next town and behold and consume my first US donkey piss in a long time. Turns at the wheel are taken by Linda and I. My times in the reclining passenger seat are enjoyed by my peeking at the scenery sliding by our stationary illusive car while I contemplate Linda’s therapeutic stay at the calm resort for the elders. I am hoping that her presence in our beloved second family home will ease Linda into entrance of her new occupational nursing challenging experience. I am picking the gauntel up that my deceased father, bless his soul, had thrown: “You will not get your Masters here; you are dreaming; that kind of education is for the rich, not you.” It is my plan to proceed with the University of Texas modus operandi.
As we get deeper into the South, Linda’s mood of complaint increases with her nervous exhaustion and lassitude. The whine of hers is of the sort that is difficult to ignore. Her comments are direly general and dark: “No one loves me. I should never have left.” Over and over she makes the same depressive statements in different words but similar comments’ significance. “Shut UP^!!!” I repeat at a shout many times with no relief. Linda has been set-off with her denial of missing the momentous turn thereby causing us a three- hundred-mile-turn-around in the dark in the mid-night. She wasted her turn driving by heading back North toward Minnesota. I make the necessary navigational corrections which waste my turn driving because the error of hers is so very vast of territory.
After days, and a brief supper in San Antonio, I can smell the humid South Texas air with fragrant remembrances of the winter’s last beach visits of mom, pop and I. Now we approach the home stretch sans mom. She, the grieving widow, will be with us in a few months. For some reason the last driving is long and for me to accomplish. Linda is exhausted beyond reason. It is very late. The last drive is some five hours of peaceful sleepy cruising.
The security gate guard at Winterhaven is known to me and he is accommodating as we pull in to the resort. The mobile home is very hot since it has been locked without cooling utilities so: we go to the pool for a middle of the night swim. Linda is subdued. We make love hanging onto the edge of the pool with a get-a-leg-uP^ technique that is practiced. Morning comes with my giving Linda a tour of the park.
Soon, In a matter of a few days, Linda is employed with her job of choice and my suggestion: Spanish Meadows Old Folks Home, RN. They have an administrator of female slave Hispanic orientation. Linda is over taxed with odd hours of more than she can handle. A day comes when she is warned and removed out the building.

Case Study: Abnormal Psychology [ written and submitted to Dr. Fisher, UTB., Oct., 1997]

There is, the 42 years old female nurse presenting at her physician's office and she has the complaints of over-anxiousness and depression. She is well educated and adept in medical terminology and psychological manifestations. The issue of profession confidentiality is discussed at this time because she fears for negative implications concerning her nurses' license. A pseudo-name is used, Jane, and the Md. assures her that he will make discreet notes only.
Jane relates her history beginning from her late teen years. She has had an unconsummated early marriage to a man that she describes as a suspected/ assumed homosexual. After 18 years of marriage, Jane separates from her husband and she grieves concerning her lifelong infertility and her nearly totally sexual-abstinent marriage. Jane remained faithful to her husband before the separation and she is now in a four year long common-law spousal relationship that is sexually busy but emotionally chaotic. Early in Jane's marriage, during and after a quarrel with her abusive husband, Jane attempted suicide with substances. In solitude, she, while expiring, phones the ambulance and then she lost consciousness. Jane claims to remember awakening in the ambulance with the ambulance attendant crying as he continued to rape her, the other attendant watched and she assumed he participated also. No police were involved in this incident. Jane was hospitalized for 10 days and she received counseling for two months. Her diagnosis was kept secret for occupational reasons. Jane related to her doctor her frequent and intense marital abuse, she stated: her jaw had been broken, her body (not so much facial) continually hid bruising. The abuse is alleged ( never was her husband arrested ) to have been continual throughout the lengthy marriage. After 15 years of a sexless and infertile marriage, Jane and her husband bankrupt themselves paying for Invitero-Fertilization-Programs that resulted in one anxiety induced miscarriage. Jane attempted suicide with substances during her separation negotiations and was hospitalized again for 10 days and she received counseling for one month. Her diagnosis was: accidental poisoning, (again, for occupational reasons). Since Jane has been in her new (four years long) relationship she has daily anger and she has retreated the relationship by leaving or threatening to leave biweekly ( she estimated 200 times ). Within the previous two years, Jane has engineered for herself and her spouse relocations to six different cities. Jane has had nine different jobs during 1997. Most of her instability at work she claims to be of an interpersonal nature rather than due to her occupational performance with her patients and clients. Jane has a life long condition of irritable bowel syndrome, she suffers monthly from severe migraine headaches for which she takes a powerful medication called Imitrex. There is a twenty years old spinal condition of fused vertebrae. On monthly occasions Jane becomes physically combative with her present spouse and she has involved police in these encounters. Jane has nervous frequent eye-fluttering-movements and it is noticed that when the doctor moves his arm in his usual expressive manner that Jane cringes and raises her arm in a defensive pose. Jane states that she enjoys her recent sex-life within her common-law-relationship yet she is frustrated that she cannot remarry because she has failed to secure a divorce from her husband. Jane miscarried due to anxiety during an ocean voyage 14 months ago and since she monitors her infertility with frequent disappointing negative pregnancy test results. She has been removed from her family and friends, by her many resettlements. Jane admits to uncontrollable daily/nightly tearfulness. She has early morning wakening and frequent insomnia for which she takes no med. Jane has tried antidepressant therapy with disastrous responses to the various medications and she has had numerous drug related car accidents. Jane now fears any chemical approach to her treatment and she opposes the taking of any drugs at all, (for occupational concerns she wishes to test drug-free}. Jane relates a lengthy period (18 months) of "bugging", following, stalking, stealing, harassment, gossiping, middle-of-the-night-home-entering, and defilement by her estranged-husband that was directed toward her and her new spouse. The doctor notices that Jane's forearms are raw from her scratching of them. Presently Jane voices continual negative observations about her life. She says: "I'm afraid I'm going crazy and I can't get any help".

Case Study Response and Possible Diagnosis:

The interviewer notes the longevity of Jane's history of symptoms as being twenty/plus years. The abusive marriage has instilled many episodes of loss-of-dignity for Jane. She has voiced a sense of lowered self-esteem. Her affect with her nervous eye-movements and her timid soft voice show Jane to be reduced by intimidation. Jane's powers of concentration are decreased as evidenced by her numerous vehicle accidents. Decision-making for Jane is lengthy, fickle and labored, as seen by her many recent relocations. Feelings of doom (perhaps present and impending) and hopelessness are expressed by Jane. Jane has experienced frequent traumatic factors : e.g. perceived (alleged) rape, infertility leading to bankruptcy and miscarriage, Her husbands constant abuse of Jane and his infidelity. Symptoms are unrelieved for many years for Jane and she has to tolerate pathological conditions of spinal discomfort, intestinenal problems and severe monthly two or three day-long-migraine headaches. Jane has had, early in her life, major depressive episodes with a suicide attempt resulting in hospitalization and she has had recent major depressive episodes with hospitalization following a suicide attempt on the occasion of her post-marital-separation. Her major depression is in remission at the time of the interview. There have been no episodes of mania related. There are no chronic psychotic disorders in Jane's history. Jane has a high level of anxiety, as her father is said to have reported: " understandably SO". The symptoms cause relational discord with those people close to Jane. There are recent numerous occupational and geographical changes and this reflects disappointment and interpersonal strife between Jane and her co-workers.

Diagnosis: 300.4 Dysthymic Disorder, late onset with Atypical Features.

The specifier, Atypical Features, is used because Jane's mood is elevated when she regains new employers. Her mood improves with material gratification (shopping). The pleasant moods however are short lived in comparison with her depressed moods. Jane receives some remission because of her new spouse and her regaining a normal sexual role that pleases her. This client, is extremely emotionally fragile as she fears renewed rejection from her new spouse similar to the rejection she has already experienced from her previous spouse.

Thank-you.


Sinda’s 1996/97/98 work history: ( in chronological sequence ) [written mar. 17, 1998]
Erickson Nursing Home, Erickson, MB., Canada.
Brandon General hospital, Brandon, MB., Canada. ( quit job of 14 years, then inpatient for suicide attempt ).
We Care, Home care co., Brandon, MB., Canada.
Unspecified home care co ?? Brandon, MB., Canada.
G.P. Baker General Hospital, Quesnel, BC., Canada
Amata House, Quesnel, BC., Canada.
Group Home with Brenda Dugay, Quesnel, BC., Canada.
Period of five months of unemployment while John works, Sinda has John arrested through her fit of hysteria, No evidence given in John’s behalf, verdict guilty. Prince Rupert, BC., Canada.
We Care Agency, Victoria, BC., Canada.
Three different private home care clients, Victoria, BC., Canada.
Spanish Meadows, Horizon Health, Brownsville, TX., USA.
Dolly Vincent Memorial Hospital, San Benito, TX., USA.
Coastal Home Health, Brownsville, TX., USA.
Harlingen Nursing Home, Harlingen, TX., USA.
Brownsville Medical Center, Brownsville, TX., USA.
RCW Home Health Care, San Benito, TX., USA.
Valley Regional Hospital/ Columbia, Brownsville, TX., USA.
Rotoma Personal care Homes, Harlingen, TX., USA.
period of unemployment Sinda has John arrested, Outcome is pending.
Sinda relocates to Sulphur Springs, TX., with the aid of neighbors and John’s friends. John advised by Sinda’s Lawyer of restrain order against John , who goes into default rather than affect Sinda’s reputation in a negative manner.
Sulphur Springs Nursing Home, Sulphur Springs, TX., ( Till present, maybe ) ???????

Linda does a long steady pattern of being unstable in social and occupational endeavors. The psychological diagnosis for abnormality/s was written prior to the cop attack and arrest that I was “framed” by Linda Maley/Hurl. She is such a deluded liar. When the analysis was returned to this writer by his graduate level professor he wrote: “delusion???” across it for reference to Jane. Yeah Jane is the unsung kook. It is a full time job for me trying to keep this kook-love together. When well goes over to sick sick does not get well well gets sick.

She Made Her Reservation

Swear to God truth to tell
Wash you hands go to Hell
Penetration orifice sin
Vindictive bitch that is sure
Crazy pa mean ma mean
Gain evil undying shame
Your understanding love delusion
Man of honour you dare discipline

Pool life Volley

Dad loved to play water volley ball twice a week with me and mom and teams of no rules is the rule. The net man “nutman” would pull down the net right up till the time of his death as a cheating lark. He would accommodate both sides with his helpful cheating of obstacle removal. Linda and I would play regularly with my parents or in their absence. Joking would rebound as the ball of play. Some elders had funny hats. Some would yell yabadubadoo like Fred Flinstone. Linda seemed to have a moment of relapse into normal-acy lunacy instead of her overwind of nervous anxiety and A-type obsessing during our pool sessions.
“Is that where she lives; why are you looking at that house?” “I am merely driving, dear.” I am thinking of what chance would I have to cheat. Linda will not even let me go to the corner store alone. During her working times I would sneak to the beach and Linda would check the car for new sand so sand became a sin whether I had been or not. Sometimes I take the car and three pistols and one rifle and the dog toward Boca Chica along the Rio and I shoot tin cans and targets of safety. Yet these shooting-outings were interpreted as suspicious also by the insecure Linda because she is unable to tell the origins of the sands of river or beach. “Relentless” is hardly a sufficient word for Johnnie-catching when it is applied to the blonde dictator. Leaving-me is always ongoing for the abusive good ole blonde. I just never cheated but I guess I was never very convincing in my defense because the demands on my apologies were so very very taxed. My friends dwindled related to excess of time needed to calm the bomb of emotional trauma.
Since the great lack of sex between P o’S and Linda the sex between us is always vast. “Look John! You have made me a woman again. I cannot count the number of times I came.” The substitution and referral transference of sex for love to “catching-uP^” for Linda usually precipitated after her scolding of me with her suspecting and threatening of leavings. P o’S ‘s dysfunctional sicko uP^bringing (familial and alcoholic) left Linda with the heart of hatred for mother-in-laws (necessarily so as Orv, her father would say). Vi would say: “She has jumped off the roller coaster again.” Linda’s parents’ warnings of me about P o’S’s and Linda’s marital style was voiced: “They would fight a lot; we would go to the dance and they would stay home and fight.” Jerry Springerites they were and they slashed their lashings at and on me.


Snapped Crayons

She is almost alone sitTting on my couch for the first time and the phone rings. She has the look of the lost and skittish with her blue eyes’ eye-lashes-dyed and spying from corner to corner of my apartment with constant anxious lashes-fluttering as I notice them to be while picking uP^ the receiver. “Hello, oh, I am busy. Can you call back? Tonight. Or late afternoon.” OK.” Before I hang uP^, from the edges of my left eye reflected, by sunny window glare off the snow bank reaching the bottom of the ground level apartment window, I see Linda’s back with book-packed full backpack on scooting as fast as her little feetsies can walk without running down the icy sidewalk heading to her dorm house. I wait an appropriate time for her to reach her, my assumed for her, destination and I phone. “Why did you run off?” “It was a woman on the phone wasn’t it” “So, look Linda I had a life before you decided to drop by to visit me.” “You men are all the same.” “I have done nothing wrong. I merely picked uP^ the phone and I was being polite to ask her, Lily needs nurse info, to phone back. What is wrong here?” “Oh, nothing, I guess, I will walk back there
The instructor from out of town is being hospitable while her younger sister is visiting town and she has us come over to meet her sister. “Excuse me I have to take a shower.” This impressive stature of a woman needs a little ice-breaking and I say with harmless chuckle: “OK! I will right in there.” Linda jumps uP^ in silence. She grabs the large can of beer out of my hand and grabs her jacket while letting the door slap and slam on her hasty exit. Instructor says: “Did you get the reaction that you wanted? You had better go after her.” I shake my head in disbelief, I rush out without coat. Holy Mac is she ever on the move. She is nearly at the edge of town. She cuts under some bush through a children’s small park and I catch uP^ at the edge of a deep ditch where she can run no more. I slowly approach the winded trembling fawn that still holds my first nearly full beer of the day. She tosses it into the ditch saying: “You do not need this.” I can not belief that you have just done this. Catch your breath and we will walk back. Here is a hug.” This is the first calming hug Linda has from me. “You owe me a beer.” “John you do not know what I have been through with my husband and his drinking.” “I am not your husband. We are merely newly being entertained and you are over-reacting.” “If you want her she is yours; go for it.” Linda is picking at herself till she is sore. “Look Linda, she is visiting from across the country; she has a fiancée, I am sorry if you got the wrong idea, I was only joking a joke as the game goes.” “I will try to forget it.” The visit is cut short because Linda convulses in migraine and she says she can not see to get home and would I take her. I do and she recovers in prompt entrance time and I think that I am being run by a woman already butTt, for a while, I will let her. She grew uP^ with no good male roots so her man-nipple-ating is forgiven by me this time. Her nerves are colliding with the very air she runs away from me in. There is no magic butTt the far away look that causes the people to say: we can see “it” on her.
Shopping at the largest mall in town happens on the Indian reserve across the bridge on the fringe of the white side of town. There is much tension in town because of the Cree winning their land claims in the Opasqua Cree Nation district. A special slap in the white countenance is that the Indian lawyers have discovered that for the last hundred years, in order to save the white prosperous land, the whites have been burying their dead on poor Indian land without the gesture of purchase. Now the tribe federation wants back-payment and settlement, and a fair present day price or else remove the debris. I am saying to Linda; “Hey, I think they are right.” I see the red reddening in her blonde’s paleface face and she rushes out the exit to the Pathfinder with me in pursuit ‘cause I do not care to walk the long walk home. I reach for the handle as she pops the button closed and speeds spinning wheels through the crowded
lot of lots of people and parking. There is a redeeming fresh large flakes snow slowly parachuting to my treading booted feetsies that I watch my feet step in oblivion with every step with head hung low. She has done it again as she says of herself: sometimes I snap my crayons. The short hairs of pubic mounds, hers and mine are dragging me, and I am falling in love. It takes nearly two hours of cold nose-dripping turning to icicles walk for me to reach my apartment in time to pick uP^ the phone to hear: “ I am so sorry, I do not know why I did that. Can I come right over?” “OK.” I BLAME IT ON HER STILL BEING MARRIED TO HER PIECE OF SHIT. And she knows it.
After daily and twice-daily and thrice-daily of Linda-outbursts I am becoming evaluative and desensitized to their tragic import on me. I am being psychologically abused but I am forgiving because she can not help herself; or, so I think of her. I feel that I am able to distinguish and extinguish the frequent more severe episodic blow-uP^s with redeeming hugs and kissiekisskisses. But, perhaps this attention from me is her motivating etiology of her chaos. It may be like her and Po’S’s marital style of argue until make-uP^ then comes the token gift exchange. I do not participate in such absurdity yet I do consider some of her uncontrollable outburst as dangerous for her and for me to the point of necessary restraint in the form of open arms and perhaps roll on the bed or couch until she calms. She seems to be most agitated just before leaving to go out; I mean just before, as right there in the doorway and she will flop around banging herself from side to side in the door way and even slamming herself in anguish to the ground. Such tantrums happen more often than they should and they probably should occur never in the sane person; butTt she is Linda and I have grown accustomed to protecting her from herself. Driving the back 511 road Linda as passenger starts yelling and she opens the window and flings my cooler thremos of refreshing libation far out the window and into the ditch. I stop the car intending to retrieve the needed by me fluid. ButTt I change my mind when I see Linda bolt toward my direction and I know that another scene in public is often and too often dangerous for me in the OJ-sense. Someone will report and the man always takes the blame from society because women are such dammed-good-actresses and liars. So, I, in a way of defense for myself for the time being, spy a trail that leads to tall grass around a swampy extension of a ressaca and I rush to it and crawl there hiding in the tall grass until Linda may cool-off. “John! John! Where are you?” Linda rushes to the watery edge of mud and she screams with all her might: “I want to die I want to die, John, I want to die.” She is continuing the chant in decreasing volume of voice until she says as if knowing I am close and can hear her: “Owwhhee, this water is too dirty.” I am thinking what is the difference how clean if you are serious about your going to die, therefore I know her attempt is passive. And I do not come out yet. Linda returns to my car that is still running and she mats the accelerator until the engine revs beyond its limit and endurance and I can hear an intensifying knock of damage. Then I come out. That is why she did it so that I would come out to rescue the car from her foot of accelerated madness. Linda sees me and she gets out and jumps into the passenger seat and sits; she just sits. “You owe me a new motor. You know what you just did don’t you?” She nods and just sits as I slowly leave with my motor clunking and banging this spot into a small spot in my rear view mirror. I do not get my thermos when I need it most.

Rear view near-crashing cars scratched lip by cheek

Linda is unemployed again and these are fearful times for me. It was during the drought of inactivity for Linda in Prince Rupert that lead to her antics that lead to my getting bust there. It seems like and endless cycle for us with me taking Linda for interviews and application and interviews and applications. She does not fit in well with her fits with the Tex/Mex dominated labor force here. This alienation is evident for me through comments made by Linda when she gets home from work such as: “Look what they sent us.” Then they would glare over at Linda. Linda would work QA and she would have to correct the volumes of nurse charting mistakes and inform them of these inaccuracies. Not a good way to make friends.
Linda insists that we go to Corpus Christie for a few days. I am reluctant because it is not a good time for my grad studies. I only have three more courses to complete for my Masters Degree. No is not accepted by my ruler. We go. Once in the city I learn that the real motive for our being there is that Linda wants to move and relocate in anmore anglo setting such as the one that her sister-law ran away to, Driscol Children’s Hospital when she left her fucked-uP^ Hurl husband-brother-in-fag-of Po’S; she ran away with a male co-student nurse in the RN year too. She, the sis, must have been the relational pattern or model for Linda and I, in the demented little head of Linda anyway. When I learn of her plan from her constant perusal of the local classified ads, I insist that we leave after the weekend and that we do not stay during the week days for her job-hunting. “I have come to far at too much cost for me to discontinue my degree plans now, Linda. This time the “Move” is mine. Linda is furious and I fuck her silly on the floor next to the giant bed in our rented luxury room. Just to shut her uP^. When we return to Brownsville another job interview is arranged for a home care company that is one of many for this nurse; so many are the home care employers that our home has piles of neglected charts of clients from various facilities that Linda has neglected to return. This disregard is a major breech of confidentiality and client advocacy. She does not care.
“I am taking you tomorrow to the Island for afternoon cocktails.” This is a first for Linda to promote my liesure. The new motor in my two seater Feiro is howling and I jump at the chance to fly the highway. There is much discussion on the fifty minute ride to the Island about a mutual friend from nursing school, Randy Stan. I have had to save him from Indian justice because he was trying to jump on a fourteen year old Indian princess only days before his uP^coming wedding. Linda thinks I lie about this charge and she says: “you are ten times worse.” I can tell by this comment that She is in a mood. In the past, more than once Linda has gotten angry at the beach and she made accusations such as: “I saw the wAy you looked at that woman.” And I was wearing sunglasses so how could she see how I looked. Then she would drive off and leave me to hitch-hike-home. I am fearful now of a repeat performance from her as I believe that she plans to leave me on the Island while she rushes home to pack so she can join Randy and his bride in Texarkanna in the interval of my return home. So I insist that we park the car and go for separate strolls for cooling off time on the beach and I remove the keys from the car so she can not abandon me. The removal of her escape mode makes her furious and she is literally chasing me uP^ and down side streets and parking lots with me fleeing and clutching onto my saved sack of suds. I stop and give her the keys as to not attract any more public attention to my detriment and Linda slaps the sack of now beer foam busting on the ground. She sticks two twenties down my shirt of tee and says: “Here, get a room I am going. I retrieve the money and put it in her shirt. IU jump into the car on the passenger side and say take me home now. “You could take a calming stroll as I suggested, could you?” Linda revs the motor into a squealing take-off and she blasts down the main street of 30 mph doing 80. I am begging her, because my car is rear engine and only plastic in the front making it a death trap, saying : “I do not want to die with you today!” She narrowly misses a Suburban with six people in it. The family car is avoided by my grabinfg of the steering wheel. At the intersection to the bridge entrance she is missing the corner to land smashed in the parking lot filled with cars at the camping park area; so once again I steer around the corner on to the bridge of two miles of length. The open bridge is calling Linda to speed further. Nearly a 100 mph is reached by the high performance car so I try to pull her foot off of the gas pedal. This effort makes her step on the pedal harder so I try and suceed in shutting the key off butTt this locks uP^ the steering so I turn it back on and I have caused her to de-accelerate to about 60 butTt the light is red at the intersection at the end of the bridge and she is not slowing. She gives me four quick punches to my left temple and says: “you are getting out!” Meanwhile her arms are flailing all about her own face and mine. I notice a red drop of blood on her cheek and I kiss it off of her face and I give uP^ my life to her chances. The light turns green; it is my luck. The police stop us with their lights flashing. Linda gets out of the car to tell her lies of I do not know what or how butTt they seem to letting her go, dam it. If it were me driving I would be on my way to the slam. “What happened to your fiancée’s lip.” “I do not know, I think that she has scratched herself.” He asks me a second time and I repeat the exact same words. I do not get out because I am drenched with the beer that Linda has slapped on my clothes and I am in fear of PI. “I suppose you are going to blame this on me too.” Linda says to me as she drives us off. I am exceedingly glad that the cops have restored sanity to Linda’s driving.
I can not let Linda get home in her condition, as I know that she will perform for the neighbors. I’ll drive I tell her and we will get some wine for supper. Anything will do for an excuse not to go directly home. I am hoping for her change of mood that has not been forthcoming as of yet. I need even more time. When we enter our gated community I say: “Look Linda, we both have our bathing suits so, since we did not get to the beach, let us go for a swim in the front pool.” I park along side the vacant pool. She takes a long time to enter the pool and a man has joined me for swimming conversation about farming. Linda stays at the far shallow end and the water seems to boil all around her as I keep my distance for at least one hour. She is getTting redder and redder of face complexion that is usually very pale white almost fair. There is nothing fair about Linda. With my extremities shriveled not from old age butTt from soaking I proceed to the boiling proximity: “Let me see you booboo.” I look and it is so superficial that I pluck the tiny tag patch of epithelium from her upper lip and say: “Even prettier.” She is not buying it. I know from assessment that her neonate sharp like finger nail has done the insignificant so-called damage that has merely left a red mark hardly two millimeters in diameter, the size of two grains of rice placed side by side. ButTt for Linda it is a crater of blood filled trauma.
I enter the house first and I proceed directly to the bathroom to get my wet shorts off and Linda enters yelling. I put my arm across the doorway’s opening and say with my loudest shout: “You have been such a (now with intensity of volume of shout) bitch and a cunt (back to normal shout) today, do not start again or stay away from me.” I dry off wondering why it is so quiet out there in the other rooms. I go into the living room and turn on the TV. As I am bending over I see Linda entering the door of the neighborly spinster snitch across the street and I know why. The Brownsville cops are coming
I grab a last drink of peppermint shnapps and I wait for the proceedings. I calmly walk over to Christina,s door, she is the well known to the neighborhood rat of the only Mexican American living in this haven of Winterhaven guarded and gated community for mostly wintertexans because she has made so many enemies in the form of her students who like to burglurize her as the target of their revenge. When this devilish she moved her mobile into the park she telephoned the cops because her neighbors were peeking in the window even before she had taken possession of the home while it was still hooked onto the moving truck; go figure that Linda sure knew which neighbor to set uP^ her frame on John. I walk over and tap on her door well knowing that Linda is inside. “Who is there?” Christine calls through the closed door. “John.” “Go away.” “You are dealing with a psycho in your house, Linda.” And I leave to await the cops.
Three cars of the idiot parade pull uP^ to the home across the street and they are talking to the lying bitch and cunt at the very moment I call out: “Hey you guys, you are at the wrong house, come over here and talk to me.” “There he is let us get him.” One of the cops calls out in the newly descended dark dusk. They rush over and surround me and I see that they are all three short and young kiddie cops. “Are you John deGroot?” One of them asks, I can not tell which one because of the dark and the revolving co-motion of this pack of watchdogs. “Look, you guys, this is my property and this is how it works here; You tell me your names and identify your selves and I will tell you my name.” “He wants our names.” One of them is mocking me. “Brownsville PD.” Another calls out as they circle me. “Got any name tags on, if you will not tell me, then let me see your name tags. I can barely see one tag but I can not read it. Do you all have name tags? Does anyone have a flashlight? What are your names?” “Ok, I got him cuffed.” I am standing motionless at the end of the carport in the dark. “That is it we got him for failure to identify.” Another dog barks: “Do you want to get in the car?” I think for a moment and I decide that the correct answer to this interrogative is “no”. Who wants to get into a police car? “No.” They begin to bang their bodies against me and I repel the onslaught with a little nudge upon the impact of their slams against me. I am still planted in the same place, the same spot. “Get in the car.” There is no car to get into. In their keenness they have forgot to bring one of the squad cars around and open one of the back doors. I notice this and I chuckle to myself in silence. “Bring a car around,” One of the pack shouts to another. A car swings around and finally I am ordered and not merely questioned whether or not I want to get in: “Get in the car!” I am pissed now and I say: “I do not think so.” “Let us pick him uP^ and slide him in the back.” They all jump on this idea with resounding “Yeahs”. “Ok, I will stand perfectly still so no one will get hurt.” I know they are itching to put more charges on me when one shouts resisting transportation. The local assholer Lee, a park board member, comes by on his bicycle to do some voyeurism and I shout to him Hi Lee because I know he will appear as a witness for the prosecutor and I want him to remember that I am not moving let alone resisting. With much effort and difficulty the police puppies grunt as they lift: “Gee he is a big one.” Once in the car, laying face first down against the seat with hands cuffed from behind, I decide to tell the kiddie car driver just what the fuck I think of the whole event and I swear at him all the way to the police station in a most articulate and meaningful manner: “ You fuck’n fuck fucker does your fucking shit faced mother know what a fucker you are and what the fuck you do for a fucking living? What’s the matter shit head, got nothing fucking better to than cop? Because you fucking make six fucking bucks a fucking hour and you are hardly worth that you fuck, you hear me you fuck you and all those other fucks you fucking call cops. Anyone of you know any fucking English or do you just fucking grunt and squeal like the fucking stinking assholing fucks that you all really are fucking around with innocent fucking peoples’ lives while you fuckers think that you are all really fucking good for what the fuck fuck all that is what? You fucking assholes will pay in fucking hell for what you do here now you and your rotten fuckers of shit that is fucking that shit in the fucking bullfuckingshit of a fucking piece of fucking crap you call a fucking police mind. Fucking shits of kids think you are good fcuking cops sucking uP^ to that fucking blonde fucking liar of a fucking bitch. Want to get some fucking in on your old fucking siphed-uP^ crapfaced old fucking bitch sluts of yours with that piece of shit rat that called you fucker in. And on and on I tell this poor demented fucking piece of fucking Brownsville fucking best till we get to the station and then I tell the fucking sergeant of the fucking detachment what the fuck he is. Then they take me to the concrete hole with out clothes. “Get on your knees now.” The fucking sarge says. “I do not think so, you fucker.” Then they beat me to the ground and they stand, all three of them, around me and make obscene gyrations about my face next to their crotches. Then the fuckers leave me there until morning.
The remanding judge says how do you plead to the charges of class A misdeamor assault causing bodily harm, Failure to identify and Resisting arrest and transportation. I say: “Not guilty on all charges, your Honor.” “You will have prompt opportunity to make bail at five thousand for the assault and five thousand for the resisting and there must be an immediate payment of two hundred to the municipality for the failure to identify; if and when you make bail, then you may leave.” “Will I be able to use the telephone, soon sir?” “Yes, I said you would have prompt access to make bail, That is all. Take him away.”
The fucking cops at the Jackson street police station do not let me use the telephone for three days. It is not until I inform them that I have another court appointment on the third day and that they would have to escort me there if I am still in lock-uP^. And I say that I will tell the judge there about their not letting me use the phone that is when they let me use the phone. The second night I am put in a large overcrowded cell with forty or fifty loonie-tunes trying to get through the bars by yelling most of the night. We are piled uP^ on the damp concrete filthy floor.

Through the Bars

Dark damp concrete coated with laying souls chained next to next to next in rows
How many links am I feeling are my new personal properties between neighbors
Twelve across me six to the left and six to the right and ends of souls on chain not in sight
Who created us why are we here alive crimes of times
Faint view of form dematerializing to vapors escaping and empty chain links concrete clunk
New prisoner to replace the place on the lane of chain of lain wasted what
How many others are created as the departed through the bars maybe me
Called to be here called to not knowing called to prepare the going I can do too
Watch his atoms separating in to ghost consistency and flying release
No one sees and notices that is two now and am I called to go through the bars
Manacles of minds of chained slaves thrown overboard for insurance policy
God points the ring at me I am created to be free through my body I can see
Whirling globes celestial components of my vaporizing body form through the bars
Flying flying flying I finally know why I am flying I am created to be God wants me
Through the bars

There is no sleep for the wicked. This is understatement in this place. The de-humanizing is of American monumental impressiveness. What really fucking bothers me is that most of those and these real people in this stinking place are merely remanded for plea; they, most of us are still and may remain innocent according to the law, yet we have the most harsh treatment in this police lock-uP^. We are citizens who are paying the fucking wages in this place. It is fine for another citizen to say well a criminal must pay his debit to society, butTt we here have not been to court yet and we all are already condemned by this fascist police force. During the night I spy with my little eye that there seems to be some sort of conspiracy directed toward the only anglo-wado in the pig pile. Then it happens:


About to be Pissed on in Brownsville Lock-uP^ (true )
(loook uP^ drip-drip)

40 Men on the floor mostly
innocent
Untried tied souls soles toestoo curled uP^ on
cement
HEY! 4:00 A>M> rambler what you
doing with your pants
I'm the only white-boy-here
don't make any further advance
Rising^ Oh No You Don't! put it over there
Directed to the urinal hole he decided
to depart
His load upon a fellow Nation's Al
he had missed his Mark
slamm slamm guard enters deposits appropriate blows drags him away

During my three days of torture and waiting for my entitled prompt court ordered phone call to bail bondsman there is a rather insane constantly yelling-kicking-banging inmate in my same predicament: “telephonOOOO guardia telephOOOO!!!!!” And I join him in chorus to of course no avail butTt I already know that it is futile to yell since they have proven lack of humanity already butTt he, Mr. Insanity, does think it will help. He has been “in” so many times that he has a regular bondsman that he calls the angel of mercy. A-one bailbonds and telephonOOOO # is relayed to me. And I finally call after much coersion. And I am out butTt I must pay twice the rate of interest because I am a Canadian and supposedly I am more of a risk for flight. The angel has landed.
I am to have a meeting with an anglo fuckhead prosecutor, Mr. Thompson, who will decide if they should preceed. He has made uP^ his mind before meeting me. I think that there is a Good Ole Girl hiding in the soup somewhere, I can smell the fish by my wasted trip of truth: She is a liar and a thief and I can prove it and I am innocent, is disregarded by this useless investigator and I tell him so. And I tell him what the Browntown cops are in the habit of doing and he only gives a shit where his paycheck is picked uP^ at the Ole’s command. “You sure do not suck uP^ to someone who can get this matter thrown out.” He says to me at this pretrial meeting. I only tell the truth I tell him. “Seventy per cent of cases never get to court; we offer a plea bargin if you plead guilty.” He says. “Innocent is innocent.” I have to see the judge for a plea and to secure a court appointed lawyer. Bobby Lerma is the son of an old retired Judge Lerma and he is sucking off and gasping on daddy’s droppings and drippings. Lerma gives me no appointments requested by me and mom at least ten times. Lerma gives me no correspondence. Lerma’s secretary hand me a cell phone with which he treatens me with get out of my office, leave my secretary alone or I’ll call the cops. This is my lawyer. I go to the county of Came moron court clerk to complain about Lerma and she tell me that she is the very secretary’s best friend and that I would have to call a meeting with Lerma, the Judge, and the prosecutor in order for me to complain so she suggests that I merely wait until the first time that these pigs are all at the same trough and I can tell them about Lerma’s professional neglect at that time. So I wait.
About a year goes by and then I go to court. The judge is sick and there is a fill-in judge so I must come back. The next trial date no Judge shows uP^. The next trial date I get the very new Good Ole Girl eX-prosecutor-UTB-alumnist judge, Janet Leal. This trial Is suspended because the prosecutor has not sent out any sopenas because he can not find Linda; she has given them a false address and phone number. Linda does not want to come to court to lie to cover uP^ her previous perjury of police statement. I have my first conversation with Lerma. “Do not worry, I can guarantee you that they will throw it out at the next trial, they can not find her or one of the cops will not show and the judge is a friend of mine.” “Do you want to know about the case? I ask him. “There will be plenty of time before the next court date on that same day, a few hours before. If it come to that. Do you know where she is?” He tells me and asks me. “Sure, not that I care, she is in Sulpher Springs working at the personal care home there. A so-called friend of mine came and helped her steal three cars loaded with things from the house right after she had me arrested and while I was tortured in Jackson Street cop fucking shop for three fucking days. He, Randy Stan, lives by there in Texarkana. I do not want to provoke any unfriendly testimony from Linda and I am not a rat so I am wanting for the outcome of these charges before I try to get her arrested for car theft.” There is to be another trial. I go to the municipal court for “failure to identify” trial and I win and My two hundred fucking bucks is refunded. Browntown mini-pig SerRata got his lies mixed-uP^ and he did not know the page of the criminal code book that I referred to which states that you have to already be detained or arrested before you have to identify yourself; or if you give a false identity; so I win round one butTt Judge Neece says stop harassing the cops and that he hopes that they getTt me in the next court. He is quite the impartial Judge. I think that if I did not research the penal code book that he would have railroaded me.