A word about the novel
As stated I am a self trained writer/poet, what does this mean? Well, I am not your usual collage trained writer, nor did I read books on how to write.I did not say to myself that I would learn how to write so I could come up with novels about vampires, or books about secret messages in "codes", in other words I did not start out thinking i would write to be rich and famous.I do not read books to learn how to become rich and famous, I also do not read books that you would find on supermarket shelves normally.Yes I do read books found in book stores, and I have read a lot of books that only certain people would know about. I started out reading a lot of poetry, and my interest became very eclectic.So, i became interested in the Surrealist movement.As, I had wanted to be an artist, but my life took the path of poetry.For me it was a journey through reading as much of the best thinkers, and writers that seemed to be at home in the strange, and the magical, and also philosophy became a large part of this.For me it has been a long slow process, to find my own voice, as it were, I finally thought to write a novel on how I became a poet, a novel that would weave a story through the poetic prose.I then realized that I would have to begin in the beginning, before I wrote poetry, and that is how I came up with Gone Hallucinogen Freeway.This is then a chronicle of those times, it tells about the music, the friends, the wild child 67, 68, 69's when a lot of teenagers were searching for alternative ways to be creative, to question things, to explore the mind manifesting context we seemed to be entering coming out of the gray 50's.And yes, it was about sex , drugs, and rock and roll.But over and above that, the novel, is about a journey, that involved in this situation the use of psychedelics, it tells about one teenagers entering that journey, and describes a series of trips, as the reader enters the first trip with me, we go on a ride through the dream like landscape of the psychic changes the teenager goes through.Each trip builds to the next one, while the world goes on around, the trip goes on a trip, he meets the guides and the fellow travelers, that are either the girls he finds along the way or his brother trippers.Either way he wants to leave mental note bread crumbs in the maze of his experience, so some day he can return and remember where he had been, and what he has seen and felt.This then is my story, where it begins, like Jim Morrison said, "this is the best part of the trip, this is the trip, the best part i really like."

subtext poems:

"and god
i know, i am one"

i saw my past lives
all going by, like they
riding on a roll of them
gypsy eyes


seeing all the shapes on the sky
them chariots of the gods
Rig Vedas unfolding
in tears of Soma rain

oh shape crashed on some Gobi
plain, so many Yugas so many rolls of the cosmic
toss, pod boat from that other dimension
made in a womb of the first
time, amnesia heavenly, ruins of a self
complete

living in some mountain cave for fifty turns of the
great wheel, living with the native magic people
turning around the diamond verse written on butterfly
wings, held the threads of eternity within a small
computer ball that survived the plunge from the
galactic tare of language living at the beginning

remaking the ages in a revolving eternal return of the
name, the one, the sound of om, the honey and the bee
drinking the essence of the Tahagattha flower in a bone
cup, slowly the memory of the descent returns


After the Flash-the Dance o


after the flash
the dance of firefly
the breath of buffalo
crystalizes in radiant
stillness prayers of
drums down in the earth
the shadow ripples on the sea
of grass holding moonlight

we cross ancient totemic bridges
made of memories twined tight
with the elements of all things
that breathe and feel the winter
sun at the moment of its darkest

solar awakening, after crowfoot
the breath of feathers on the wind
the voices of the ancester's whooshing
in the young trees that stand along the
running bear river and make a medicine
of father spirit's songs where the
birds

remember to communicate


A poet lives in a Whisper

a poet lives in a whisper
that breath that swishes
between suggestion
and dread

a poet has been said to live
in his head and i can vouch
yet if i was asked i really
live where the heart speaks

a poet lives to say their truth
and looks for truth to say
so thee might live another way

a poet's life is like a misty
dream though it reflects the
world and all its cares

its wares and tares art
the stuff of the poet's soul
i know i have lived in the great
poems and the lesser ones, so

i gave my small reality up to the
call of the wild in the turn of a
a combination of words to fit the
unconscious lock, to free birds
from my sight down the deep blue

day, for to see life in a poet's eye
is to see the moments that matter
before the mad illusions take over
and pitter patter like tale tale
this poet that poet this one that

we lose our lost selves in the poem's
bosom where the flowers blossom in
our road like Buddhas and drunkards

pansy faces and faery dust are my style
so give me a big Cheshire cool cat smile
and come commensurate with me for awhile

i take refuge in the poem of the house
that was built with romantic revolution
the struggle of the people to pass the night
with a bit of verse and mystic candle flame
where the child's song still longs for play


Amusements


Amusements,
and other fabulous terrors
passing through; being and time
for the time being

the war in the heaven of language

Rome wasn't built in a day
nor was the void created in a story
who really has the power, and
who has the glory

Good and Evil are only known beyond the veil
i walk down a long empty passage to the end of
the page, i sleep the sleep of the unconscious

the old beat up typewriter mocked me; mentor as
tormentor


This nothing carnival at the end one
this sideshow shadows of creation
and Hollywood alters, in its last act
oh to study the deep Methodology of
the Tempest, Moby Dick, the Ancient Mariner

oh this circus world's sea mirror
shattering like mad, the deadly melodies
of the sea breeze, the blaze of the white
foamy light, choppy choppy white caps

hold this mirror to the cosmos, hold to us
we are at the long count of the childhood
of humankind, we are churning in the dark
sea of time, surfing the total tube curl

the lost cosmology shooting ten on the ultimate
horizon, the haunted numbers that breathe
the eons, the mists of earth's birth

reflected in stone, this dazzling amusement
empire is on the fade, the dusk is sparkling
on the world's mantle, its mystery, its snaking
language maze,to circle a thousand ages

now, fallen man is the headlines of smoking suns
the end game played on all sides playing the end
game, far corners, space-time, whence this threadbare
sky unravels, strange signs carved in the universe rock
zero carnival, tempest, sweeping down like monsoon rain

middle riddle folds gather infinities waves galactic
shaman words fade back into the center calendar mandala

Gone Hallucinogen Freeway