The Cat's Ass

Humans are too busy seeking the highest level, always wanting to be higher than a cat's ass. There is nothing higher than a cat's ass. Keep going on up. You'll see what I mean. Every religion teaches humility. Water teaches humility, seeking and settling in the lowest places, where it shares itself with all. Everest can't take any more of your heat. Give God a break, and just get off your high white horse, and come back down to Earth.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: catster.com

At The Campfire.

Suffer your illusions, if ye do not want a brother who has been  afore ye, or camp about my fire, and sup with me and listen to my wisdom's...that I suffered greatly, learning for thee. I have lain among the stars amid the trees of love itself's creation and have much to share of mysteries, are well beyond women and of wars. There are matters urgently demanding our attention, yet you'd rather wallow drunkenly in mournful 'mees' poor me sad me, for fucking lusts you label loves that got away or broke you down. Come. Share with me a draft of dark, a crackling fire light of stark realization, and try to stay awake this time...until the dawn.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Albert Bierstadt, Oregon Trail Campfire

Truth In A Gust Of Wind

Here you can read me, for here am I. I am not in a book somewhere, or a magazine over there, on a billboard anywhere...I am here, for now. I am not at all popular, not on everyone's tongue, not in vogue, or fad or followed by anyone. I am rarely spoken of and only then, in whispers, or in gossip's or in rumors, never claimed or chimed or clamor'd nor attended, as so many others are. I am that page the wind whips to you on a breeze, that meets you from afar, becomes plastered to your face. You rip me off, annoyed...my tumbled words lay crumpled on the street, as you stalk off...pissed and lathered to a frenzy. I am that word that stands before your door and knocks, that spelling you cannot un-spell...notice served, that has been given for your good. I am that Santa Clause of form, from high above your house, that gift of tie or sock you didn't want, but always knew was coming down, that you're simply out of breath...for avoiding. Put on that sock. Tie up that tie, to hang yourself, or...appear as instructed, here...before the truth. Don't make me waste my wind. Truth Out.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, in Deming, New Mexico

Art: A Gust of Wind by Paul Cocksedge, dezeen.com

Neither Now

There are gates, one should question with great care...before entering. Many such gates are posted by the damned and branded with a  pretty face, an usher with a light and a promise. All is illusion. Nothing is free here in this place. If it is given to you now...you must pay dearly. Remember...it is said..."Neither now is the promise fulfilled, but in the world to come".

This is the place of test and sorrow, of traps and suffering, of ego and desire. It is hooked and baited, filigreed with golden sting, sweetened with tears, the mishaps of good intention and salted with gall. It is a bitter plate you must eat, if you eat now. I would rather you suffer less, and stay from these and taste not ever, yet, I know you must and will.

You may glimpse the world to come, within yourself...for it is there, nor otherwhere. In peace and silence, you will see her by the springs of your refreshing. Take a moment out to give to that sacred place, your precious time, and speak to her there...where, as the wind, she will whisper for, true love has she. You may remain in such a place, forever by her side...if you can.

This is a place of teaching. These are teachers. They will bring you pain. They will show you ways to not go again and again, and again, until you know. It's what they do. Each one waits for you to make your move on them. Be advised. Do not presume. Be straight and receive straightness. Be devious and receive your stripe, for their whip is hard and grievous.

Until, at last, your lessons learned...they bow, to let you pass and never more turn back...a better man or woman than you were, to that which suffers no more harm nor gives, but empty lies. To die to this world and its wares, to be reborn to that, that only gives and loves...at last.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, in Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: science-all.com, Lovers at Midnight

Sans Anima

Souls are not as sand, nor are they marked from what they were, beneath their worth on aisle eleven. Souls are not as easily found as pennies, nor, they neon'd, glitter'd, preened and perfect whores. Tell me you have found a soul, and I will gaze at you askance and say no more, for I have searched and searched my life away to find none here, but one remain of many...one collective all, hungry for the same...now gnawing at his own lie, soon to dissipate, a member at a time...until the chairs are empty of the hollow board, as all that joined the party...their souls worth, sucked the marrow, till, tis gone and they...no more.

I could be wrong. I could be wrong. There was a world once, with many. Now there are but faces...knowing; knowing faces...having not a clue, beseeching one more round or two, before they go. I hope...I'm wrong. These echo'd halls of sorrow's seed, be dust...an ill companion. My search goes on, and if a soul be found, what shall I do? Be not lonely...if it's true. Be not...lonely.

There are infinitely replicated sorrows, all around and ways to have them...if you will, and alikenesses of quality and purity...of crisp edges, refinements of civilization and cost...at all cost, you must have...if you must, but not I. I have placed the value deep inside and you have not the price, nor ever shall...for all it is, is of another place where truth be told and love be gold and everything is shared freely...no traps there...no lies...no simulacrum's of reality, no souls supposed, but souls indeed...a living world of glory, not of tepid ghosts. I go there through my deafness and infirmity, uncertainly...yet finally, I go.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, in Deming, New Mexico

Art: Nejron Photoshutterstock.com, man-science

The Black Fairies

The Black Fairies fly again to the Desert Willow blossom, to the alter, orchid pink where the sweet sweet nectar's hidden. Watch them fly, in their ebon suits with their harmful black swords upon their hips, yet they wouldn't hurt another creature, not yet...anyway. I watch them sail and circle about their tree of life, black black in wings of Teluridium, a halo of dark love about their source, nimbus of bliss and buzz in the hot hot blazing afternoon's solar radiance. That such beauty and such terrible hurt live side by side...gives pause to God's reason, and deep respect to his ultimate purpose, for they let me watch and find no harm in my gaze, nor ever judge me by my own fear, but carefully go about me and I about them, and though perfect trust may not exist, intentions exist in man and fairy kind, that would not seek the end of one another. This, I have come to find, is the way it is here...where the Black Fairies play., in this desert I call home...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, in Deming, New Mexico

Art: Fairy Silouette by lazzibum at Deviant Art

In The World, But Not Of It

We don't believe after a while, you know, in people...things, passing fancies, fantasies...clouds, no more than clouds appearing, and then disappearing. We test then. We test, poke, prod, detest...and give up, even those we love as being nothing more than dust...imagined, pretending, having anchored our whole hope in life in their being...thus. Their being, never thus, coming on great shock...our ship then sails on winds, away from all we held as certainty, for nothing more...or something more or less. Our anchor plunged...into a great abyss, where we are set upon our journey, floating on our little leaf, vagaries of argument and faith no longer tethered to our truth...for even that seems lost, and all there is to win for now is water, and for shelter from the heat...some god...for nourishment. Provide, if even providence exist by any measure, and now we go on, having nothing to say, nor that to say it to, to see but not to hear this world, perhaps again...ever. But to see things anew, and hear things deep within, one never heard before; to feel a strange way, as if one had died somehow, without the knowing of it happening...so strange to be in the world, but not of it, not of it anymore...at all.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,

Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: anomarsjourney.wordpress.com

Florida Mountain

I saw a Wizard cross the great scarred face of  Florida Mountain, He came against a witch, and both fell in shadow. She on her withered broom of black dust bore the pain of her trial...she, lashing, grabbing out...flung herself at him, a Raven kind of thing, his shadow then became, as stretching forth his terrible wings, a goth bird, all black as night crow. They fought there, in the light...his magic winning toward the heaven, where she could not go.

The fingers of Goth's claws rake the desert...Memories watched, recording what they saw, that each...the light, the darkness, in it's might...have their time...their equal balance, in everything. It is a circle finely writ as any art, sharply edged, as painted sand, chiseled where the wind, the master of the scene, seals its picture, both light and darkness chased...to do these things, as clouds squirrel by...to daub between the Zia and the bones, our mother left of her...her stones on Mt. Florida.

I was there today, the 'rockhound' eye, to pipe her love, through my flute, one bird returned from far away...and many others come, my thorn'd beauty, fear not...many others come. I am but one, and when they do...we fly, you and I. We fly to that forgotten place, where this began...in Paradise. I am alone. I am sad, for the mother, and the god, who created her and I...this creation buried here before our eyes, yet...no one sees the memories, or reads the signs, the sun and rolling of the stone...give.

No mind. No mind. Let it pass, for all things come again. I love you sweet lass.

The first bird of many...


Written by Bruce James Clyde, 2016 in Deming, New Mexico

Art: Google art, artist unknown