Nearly Beer

The day, hot and heavy...quiet, chemtrail'd vapor clouds, but for the dust of heavy gravel haulers, by the hundreds...hurriedly covering some deep and dark black project up, maybe, in buttresses of sand and stone, out toward the space station. Been going on two weeks. ..long white haulers, bury'n their bones, like a coyote will...for everlasting.

What I see from the porch, stays on the porch...mostly, but I got a feel, this toasty Samhain...somebody up high, let our ass hang out...didn't say a thing. Bastard Cretan's. It's scarey, sure enough, ok? The real 'spooks' around us, doing stuff they shouldn't do...every damn day. But they got a shield, a badge and a bad ass pickup truck...license to kill.

It's paranormal secrecy...an old cowboy...been gypsy'ng, and seen a lot of things. You see nothing these days. You fuck'n blind? You see something, you best start runn'n the other way...like a dog piss'n down its own leg...skeedaddle boy, but I don't have the kind of youth it takes, to do that sort of thing...so I must stand and face...whatever comes my way.

Couple weeks ago, some feller nearby, got his whole field dusted twice by some crop dust'n moron he never hired. Went out to check, later that eve...or next, found a dead road runner...lay'n in a row. They's kill'n something out here, bigger than mosquito's. They been check'n every bush from quad's, afoot and horseback...ain't for dope or GMO...maybe eggs, or little shrimpy green aliens...gonna grow.

Dem aliens, you know, do grow. They been tell'n us how worried they are. But it ain't Mexicans...oh no, it sure as hell ain't Mexicans...they's look'n for round here. These border lands, these lying times, strange things get in the way...of a normal day. This Samhain time, has a real story...just not sure what I know, if anything...it's all so edgy. What the hell...guess I'll have another 'nearly beer'. Gets me on. Heeaw!


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

Art: google pic of crop duster

Sons and Sisters of The Wind

The cranes are here! The cranes are here! They've come to feed, of what remains...of stubble field, of farmers corn...swallows, of their kind, tis like...to reappear about this strained contentious border here.

Sandhill Cranes, their hide stretched wings, enormous omens in the sky, as dragons from Jurassic times, more gently feathered than those foreborn terrors, no less haunting of their ululating cry's. The cycle reappears, eventful...covering the arcing atmospheric dome, in clans and crowds, a sedge of cranes, so ever dear, in this locale...

from year to year, a harbinger that, winter's come, or...come, so very near, at all. Nothing can be done for that. Drat! The cranes have come, so loved...to watch them soar, their great dark selves, impenetrably borne, to wing the wind on carriages of hollow bone, and storms sung sorrowful. 

They all come here...their resting place, soaring south from polar push, that wrath of rueful winter, that they cannot bear. They feed and feed, and fore they fatten to a fall...they fly and leave, until a year goes by. 

They love them here, those sons and sisters of the wind and sky. They love them here, and so do we, a son of wind myself, am I..

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

Art:Sandhill cranes in flight, google pic

note: The beautiful airborne miracles, that are Sandhill cranes rest and feed in Deming, where I live, every year, for a while. It's a very big deal to everyone here. I sit on the porch in the evening light, just before dark and watch them pass over our house and hear their distinctive cry. What a great and awesome sight, we are privileged to witness.

The Bird

Did we have some kind of 'time thing' happen...because, it feels a lot like Thanksgiving to me? You know...the 'goose' is cooked. The bird is stuffed with 'leeks and wiener's'?

No! That's NOT the neck piece...and to beat that, the gas is building up, in North Dakota. It's all coming to a head. Watch out for 'the bird', cause...when it goes, it could go...BOO...M!

Something's happening here. Stand back everybody! I feel a breeze. Oh!, thank heaven...it's just 'a fan'.

Happy Hollow weenie...maybe?


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

Art: breakingnews.com

Chicken Necks and Bones

This Halloween eve morning, even pigeons on the roof drag leg, as if they've hired on, to zombie parts...or chicken necks and bones. The crows fly, more or less of them, cawing their omen cawl of 'cawrumba!' or 'cawabunga!' For now, the single eye of sun up, cheers, while, dances of the dead must wait their cue, perhap'...till eve'n come.

The chemtrail'd skys, the lousy lies of media, of candidates, both poised to take the helm of our land, to rub 'the red button', with their wolf teeth smiling, as the nation giggles giddy of the fondling of their dear desire, as we all await 'the end to come'. Wait for Halloween to dawn...at midnight's bong! Oh god, save saints and sinners from the times to come.

For now, just get along, and have ...a 'Happy Halloween everyone!'


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

Art: google art

Yummy Apple Pie

A note, on 'the children'...who have already chosen anime over realitae, some gaming format, over moms apple pie, dads nine to five security. A virtual reality over a lying reality...harbors for the mental fleets of innocence, naivety, puberty...pirate ships to sail away on, pillows full of feather fights, comforters to wrestle on...to hide away, from this, they've given up on.

Yet, mom and dad still look them in the eye, lie as any liar will, straight away...telling them, it's all ok. Ignore it all. It will disappear, as they down their little 'drinkypoo', a perk or two, couple lines of white snow or endless smoke, purchased from clandestine lords of death, residing round some South American city. It's all ok, you know.

But there's the rub. They know. They know, it's not ok, nor anywhere near. They came here, knowing more than you ever will. Can't you see? Your wise and carnally configured children, growing without you...ready for what none of you admit is happening? Their private little worlds, you know nothing of...where children grow, having none of you...but themselves.

Haven't you noticed? They are smarter than you, unguided...certain sure, as if they had a map, a plan...that only they are party to? Can't you see a god damn thing, people? Really? Don't you realize, if you will not take a hand...they will? A cold and heartless hand, it might be. Different world, different rules.

But now, you just go right on, as you were...ignoring the view, all sense of  right...for the sake of propriety. You keep pampering your devils, right there in the house on Pennsylvania avenue, and they keep nodding their heads to every word you say...until they're old enough and strong enough...to eat you!

Fret not. The children will do well. It's thou, that need to know, that need to see, that need to hear...that need to grow. It's thou, that need to get a clue, and hurry...hurry. Vote your fear. Scurry to your little hole, for you, dear heart, your appetite, beyond all lust, for eating every precious thing...consumes the world, and nothing left at all...to they.


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

Art: google pic

See Its Teeth

Wolf in a pantsuit, leading the sheep. What do we live in...a republic, a democracy, or...a hypocracy? The constituency. What? Are they stoned? Are they brain dead revenant's...part of corruptions waste management? Are they blind as a bat, in collusion with the dark? Or, is it just, that they want to vote in, 'the first wolf in sheep's clothing', because, if that's the case, the case was lost President's ago.

There is a wave, a waterless, hopeless wave of 'Islamia' moving against the coasts of the worlds countries. It moves, inexorably greased, by liberal agenda, political correctnea. It moves, within the hijab...hidden and obscure. It claims immigration. It prays sanctuary, from grief in its own lands...as it fire bombs and destroys cultures, burns down churches to build 'onion domes and prayer tower's'...where ever it lands.

It is far now, from being a racist or religious argument...to bar the door. It is just 'good sense, and bolt the shutters too, and...for God's sake, don't vote in a liberal, another liberal...to lead us all to slaughter. Watch the great ones, the highly placed. They all have 'handlers', with Arabic names, or Chinese wives. They are all, carefully puppeteer'd, already destroyed...from soul, outward.

Even though, you see...before your eye's, the lie, you will not leave...the price they paid you, in hope, to be among the few to survive...to bow and scrape, to kiss and suck the juices of the devils who now own you. You have not the strength of purpose or of truth, So, like a coward boy...you throw wide the gate, to those who will enslave you.

Wriggle then, cowards, wriggle as a worm, in a skillet of hell...as your sleepless nights and days and consciences...forever, torment you. For, you know...but disavow, your part in all, from your news to your views...to your 'caberet's old chum', you have sold the farm, and all of our hides...to save your own.


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

Art: google art

Ghost Story

Original, right? Not really. Lacking imagination? Irrelevant, if you've already lost relevancy and imagination, and well...life. But enough of my worries. I've always worried, knitted brows, careful and secure...where all the locks are locked, by me...for sure. Always, for sure.

Friendless  people assume, other people don't much like them. It makes one rather introspective, and excuse ridden. Like..."Excuse me, if I fail to acknowledge you, for you have failed to acknowledge me." Like that, but beyond that to...this. What if one could not be acknowledged, because, one could not be seen...in any ordinary sense, and those who can see you and converse with you, are, well...dead as a doornail, too...but just don't know it.

Loneliness loves company. So, a pretty girl comes to you. You wed, by a court recorder, or notary public or whatever and you can't collect a church full of friends, so...you beg a witness. She witnesses. She also drives bus, and used to be a deputy county sheriff, but did anyone bother to check if...during her tenure as a deputy, she got killed in a gun fight at a liquor store? No, of course not...because she'd forgotten the trauma and one 'assumes'. One assumes...so much.

Life goes on. In the course of time, children are born. Had they ever lived? Well, not before they were born...silly. In this case, not really ever...anyway, but as I said, 'life does go on'. You rescue a dog from a pound. You didn't have much choice of dog, but you love him. He's quiet and 'wierd' We always call him 'dead eye'. Eye ronic, under the circumstances.

Sooner or later, one collects a menagerie of 'friends; dogs, cats, chickens, rabbits, and a soul or two, who will speak to us at the local little town. Mainly, because...they can see us, and they're just as dead as we are...and who knew? None of us...that's for sure. Life sure is mysterious. It just goes round and round being that way.

The living can't see the dead, and the dead, can't figure, why...'people are so insular and private and wont even say, Hi! But...that's ok. Life goes on, in its own peculiar way. We're just a bunch of dead beats, most likely.

The funniest thing...when a dead person asks another dead person..."Have you ever seen a ghost?", and then goes on to elaborate, and embellish...just as if nothing had happened and nothing had changed, and...perhaps, nothing has. So, we live our ironic 'deaths', or lives out, on a couple acres of desert, a ways out of town. Quiet as a ghost around here, Internet sucks.

We got it pretty good. My one friend calls me 'Pistolero'. He's so much like me, but a lot younger. He can't figure out why, his stories wont sell, why people are so weird, and uncaring. I got a feeling, he's not gonna like, what I think is the reason. I write poetry and think on stuff, like this. I don't get comments back, when I put them on my blog or social media sites. Nothing, then...I've been assuming, for a long long time.

I found out, there's a little ghost town, out here...where we 'laughingly', think we live. In the little old town, there's this old hotel. It's called 'Pistolero's Hotel'. No shit. You can look it up. If you can ever see us, you're invited to Pistolero's place. I think, we'll get along just fine. Have a Happy Halloween, and many more.


Written by Bruce James Clyde(aka, Pistolero)2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Bootheel Old West Town, and movie ranch, Deming, New Mexico, photo credit, unknown

Something's Happening Here

Stopped at the red light in a two horse town today, and had a flashback. Oh, my god! I was 17 again. It was 1964. The 'hippie kids' were just becoming 'possessed', about that time. 'Beatlemania', was well on the way from Hamburg, and I was beginning to witness 'hippieisms' of the peace and love cult. By 66 I was an alum of the Vietnam war...via, the good old US Navy. That same year, Buffalo Springfield came out with a little thing...goes, "something's happening here, what it is ain't exactly clear".

I should say not...and not just about war, but what led up to 'peace and love', the counter culture, free love, Jesus freaks, LSD, and Mary Jane. Free minds and innocence were taken for a ride those years, and never got their cherry back. I was a boy from the hick sticks. I saw it all go down, but I didn't know what I was looking at. You know, get yourself a costume, and be a hippie too? Anybody but me, play that one? That was my take then, but even though...I sucked up, to get some 'sweet love'n', nobody left a 'brownie' on my pillow.

I wasn't invited to this hotel, or this revolution. I didn't know what I was looking at, or trying to take a taste of...until decades later. I'm still not sure what was in the kool aid, but luckily, I didn't swig enough of it to become what the hippies pretended to be against...capitalist pigs, and war mongers. The music went on. The dance never stopped, but the players got trashier, and meaner and began flashing hand signals, that rock and roller's just continued to scream to.

Supposed hippies started popping up in 'big money' enclaves, like Lake Oswego, Sedona, Arizona, Ashland, Oregon...flashing the big bucks, buying pretty properties and pretty people, and inaugurating 'liberal themes', that began...over the years, to seem, less communistic, and more fascist...in origin. That brings me back to...Hamburg. I tell you, man..."something's happening here, what it is ain't exactly clear." Can you dig it? I can't, and I will sure as hell, not be voting for it.

August, 1969...Woodstock, wood cock...whatever you want to call it, was put together by big money to make bigger money. It was a free for all of tits and 'hips' and leary dealings with mind expanding drugs of all kinds. Kids got laid. Bully! Kids got laid on morgue tables, too, and 'phoney hippies' got richer than god, and bought up the peace and love, and turned it into a liberal political party. Since then, nobody's been able to get close to the music, to see the stars, and freak'n Jesus shelf date expired years ago.

Now, Satan's running the show. Are you happy, hippy? We are just days away from a Presidential election. They want us to elect frauds, phony's and hypocrites. They say our vote counts. They say a lot of things, but every word is a lie. I want flowers and love, too...but not at the sacrifice of my country, of our world, so I say...get straight, and pronto. Wake up, sober up and smell the facism.

Whatever you do, I hope you look at reality, not through rose colored glasses, but as it truly is, cause it's here and it smells to high heaven, like a rat...to me.


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

Art: Woodstock 1969

Enjoy The Porch

You try to help people...it backfire's. You try to help people...again. It backfires, again. You can't save people from themselves. You can't change people, from the fate of their determination. You only feel right, when you quit trying that.

The world spins, another day...another dollar. It's not right, but you're not going to make it right, for any of them. They wonder why you try. Are you crazy? Get out of their light. It's their time...to get it wrong, to make mistake's, to feel the pain...to say their lines.

How can you help them, then? That's it. Don't try. Do, but do no harm. Interact, or act, or not. Your part is done, has been...for a long time. You're not dead. You're just, not in front. You always were a bit of color, character...to give the background depth.

You can count a busload of people, in your life, the camera's rolling for your story. It caught the laughter and the tears, the lies, the fears...and truth of all. It's in the can. The world's a stage, you know. It wasn't just a line. You see...now?

Don't try to save them. Have you noticed, how little, they wish to be saved? Look at how careless they are, how callous of their life and the lives of other's. These are not world savers. These are life takers, eradicators. This old world is as tired of them, as they are of this world.

Let it go my friend...let it go. Give it a name, sign at the end...out'a here. Enjoy the porch, the Milky Way, the tethered fish cracker...hanging in the sky. Read, write, relax...build that little trailer, you've been wanting to so bad...take what life brings you. It will be ok. You'll like it.


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

Art:Milky Way, from Joshua Tree National Park

The Strange Thereafter

Air, like truth...leaks out. Look for the guy with the patch. He hates leaks. Take this any way, you wish. It wont make a damn, for you or him, or her...the truth be known, in due course.

It can't be blown away with a missile. It can't be shredded and dismissed. It can't be chewed and swallowed. It will blaze in the sky of the night, with every word hid...and none will retract it, or edit out the shame.

The world, astonished, will stand side by side, a little taller than before it knew these things. It will not be the same, as it had been. Relief, can then come upon that, that took part, in the strange, thereafter..


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

Art: google art

Dreams Interrupted

It was a heart stopper, that day in Dallas. It stopped the clock, the dream, of millions. My world became a broken book of hours. It was never the same after that. It turned. It made noises. But it never told time thereafter; it told lies...instead.

Homecoming, from the Navy to that...lies and secrets; changes, no one take's responsibility for. I dreampt a dream, a dream of another world, like that first world, that had died...but changed, changed in little ways, like a world looking for answer's it couldn't find; meaning to its death, by every permutation, every file in its bleeding mind.

Finally, I awakened. It seemed, I was back, from a war in a jungle far away...but home, was never home again, and everything was wrong. Over the years, I came to realize...my world had sent me elsewhere. The ship of my life was dead. The life pod saved me, sent me outward on a journey of investigation and discovery...sent to find hope, where there wasn't any.

I came here. The answer's here. If it were not...would I have been sent? The reasons for all things amiss, can be answered here...in this false world. There is silence here, and secrets and lies. Yes. This is the place. What have you done, in this place...that makes all of this necessary?

For, I will pick you apart, as a man would a chicken...bone by bone, until I find out, or you give it up. My fate, is not to waste my time. The thing sought, must be found. The time, of those taken...given back, in perfect tune, from the beginning.

Your lies will be uncovered. Your criminal acts, sung by fellon birds, as guilty as jailers...and all the world's will hear the words, and truth will shatter the lying clock, and time will cease forever. Your 'time', its damnable mechanism, will be understood. You branded every being with your necromancy, to make them pay for your drug, of stolen hope.

This is not the end, nor the beginning. You will love the beginning, for it will never end.


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

Art: google art

Country Wisdom

There's more news in a rural town, than a big city. From where you're at...you can spit to where it happened. They might not like you. They might not cough up a furball, in your direction. They might not like the 'curious sort'.

Doesn't matter, so. Don't say a thing. Don't give it up. Don't look their way or ask them...who they are? Just bide your quiet time. Become a legend in their midst. They only got one roll, and you're it. They'll come 'round sooner or later...tell you everything they know, which is, more than likely...nothing much.

People love to wonder. Very few know. The city keeps it tighter. None of them know a soul. Farmers all know farmers. They were raised with uncle Billy Bob and Old Joe fixed every car in town, and every tractor. The local Doc, was payed to stay, not to be a genius of the healing way...just be there to tell us stuff, make us feel safe, with those caring professional eyes.

Tell us some shit, and we'll go away...live our days till, our lot is up, and we pass away eternity in the old town cemetery. It's ok. We don't know much, and we wish to know less. It's hard to keep a small town's mouth shut, christian's, as, pretend to be such.

Don't let them kid you. Country wisdom knows more than it vaunts. It passed from time, before time...ever was, and it stayed in the hands of the royalty...gentry never knew. Don't say no. They look at you, like you're a witch. 'What chu look'n at, never seen a thing like me? Oh, bullshit!...Your mama! Prob'ly your daddy too. We all got warts, in the good old ...country USA.


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

Art: google pic

Look Away

Seem to be 'leaking' follower's, like an old car tire leaks stale air. Wont be long, before life's ease of ass, will end. The legs will have to work again...churning out the toil.

They never say a thing. They're not friends. They're just, to lazy to delete their disinterest. It's funny, in a way. I used to call them 'weasels', those scurrying noises, behind the dashboard.

The 'grey mice' of non entity, the fat and greedy 'taster's' and waster's of all we are to them, 'the buffet for today'...then, when we're skinned and boned, they go away...back to chat up someone else's cloister, if the weather's fair...in the overbite, at a gallery somewhere.

Like, twas said before, there's ways to favor silences, quietness...disabuse of verbal interest, query, question, absolute obtuse suggestion of a course direction, leading one to nowhere. Try a view, that can't be bought...out across the desert, there. Here, try a bite, of this droll dirt...and laugh away, and go away...ass wipe.


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

Art: Clip from 'The Ballad of Cable Hogue, 1970

That Thin Time

Things to do, other things to do...not to wish the world bad, nor give...where nothing's given back, just other things to do, now...other things to do, the watering's, the scratch...tuning of the instruments, gathering the winter's wood, the bailed hay, and dry...the wall against the wind, the thoughtfulness and care...to lives, not human...now, their time of need is here.

Weather turning cold, harvest in the barn...cover all the cracks, batten down the decks...lash the lines and tack, keep away the wet...stoke the coals of comfort on the grate, prepare the cinnamon and cider, 'gainst the bitter dark, trim wicks of oil lamps...kick back, a song or two upon old strings...still know the words of ancient things, spell's of smells from yesteryear, as kittens scamp about the floor.

Dogs wet noses, beg and gnaw...that favorite knuckle bone, of all...brought in, from out of doors to while the time away, aside the fire...the howl, the whistle of the wind about the eves before the Halloween, that thin time, that we dread and yearn, and bar the door...to what's to come, yet all the same...it come, and nothing can be done for that, but wish the best and pray, a 'write' by candle light, a read upon the bed...and sleep, away the winter's night.


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

Art: freeyork.org, Harvest Storm