On the Concoction and Use of Potions for the Evoking of Love or Lust, and Litigious Issues One Faces Afterwards - by Ezramus Lenitsui Potsherdus, MAA (Magister Ars Alchemi)

Once more reaching that season of the year, when Cupid foolishly darts about the sky in the nude or just his loincloth, seeking victims to skewer with his dastardly darts, I have been asked to hold forth upon the concoction of potions to ensure one can gain the love of another. This is a damned silly notion, as Cupid, and his alter ego, Eros, are both very jealous of any seeking to gain success within their realms of control over the fates of us mere mortals, and even those of his fellow immortals. Yet, it is also one of the greatest times of opportunity in an alchemist’s year, the one time when, at least until the effects, real and imagined, wear off, and the fools using such seek out barristers to seek compensation for damages done, again real and imagined, to their status, wealth, soul, mental health, et cetera, ad nauseum.

In all honesty, the best thing for an alchemist to do is to either concoct potions under an assumed name, or merely create and sell the formula to others, then distance oneself behind another barrister’s legal machinations to hide the true intent of the potions under some thinly veiled reference in the sales contracts.

But, first one must define which the customer truly seeks, be it Love, or Lust, the duration, and then start the gathering of materials, brewing of the potions, salves, incense, whatever it may be, before the potential client loses interest in the purchasing of such, due to long term exposure to their “true love” or “heart’s desire”. This latter is the most tricky, hence, I recommend always keeping a supply of many materials at hand for such.

Now, as to the definitions of Love and Lust, they are many, and complex. Suffice it to say, Love is a more long-term dream state, in which one’s will is warped, wrapped more actually, around the third finger of another, despite the denials of such by the owner of said finger. Some claim this warping of one’s will is mutual, and beneficial, but my coin coffers, after six forays into that field, beg to differ. Lust is much easier to achieve, often the root of the supposed desire for Love, and centered in the nethers, the easiest portion of the body to corrupt with alchemical reactions, or to purge of such utterly.

As such, and due to the shorter lengths of such potions duration within a consumer’s system, which leads to a greater potential for future sales to the same clients, I advise one to seek to talk any into lust over lust in the purchasing of such. That, and the supplies are less dramatic and easier to obtain.

For the production of Love, by example, one needs things like hairs from the nethers of a unicorn, at least a dram of blood from six separate virgins (on the assumption that their blood will be tainted thaumaturgically as they will either be liars about abstinence, define abstinence too loosely for purity control to work, or slip before the potion is consumed, turning it from Love to Lust, which is a pain in the coin purse, as the imbibers fail to achieve that warping, and just rut for a moon or nine before the wake-up call comes via a non-virgin conception. Not to mention one needs the heart of a good dragon, the scales shed by a serpent living in an apple tree, two feathers from the comb or a cockatrice, over a pound of flesh from the heart of a banker (only found in the younger, foolish ones, never an older one), and the essence of a lawyer’s soul (a mythical thing that I never have found). Some formulas substitute lesser things for the above, or add things, depending upon duration required, age of the intended imbibers, such as the feather of an angel (difficult to gain, and often just one of a fallen one, which invokes lust, not love, hence the many litigation issues that follow this time of year for alchemists who do not gather their own materials carefully), the ashes of the loincloth of a harlot with a gold heart (pricey, as most of those are consumed with greed, and charge extra to take their loincloths after a visit, as well as the normal brothel fees), the nest of long mated griffons (one must absolutely ensure that the beasts are the only one for hundreds of leagues around, for the females of this species are known not to be truly monogamous, unless one is brewing a polyandry love potion, for a large group of individuals, in which case make sure you have the nest linings from one that is not monogamous by an stretch of imagination for maximum effect), and many more.

For lust, you just need six items, in varying amounts depending upon the duration and requirements of memory of the incident afterwards. First, six drams of any alcoholic beverage, a distillation made from the loincloths of all intended imbibers after soaking in a mix of honey from a nest of bees that feed only upon mandrake flowers, the snout of a dozen kissing bugs, thirteen drops of absinthe to ensure no bad memories of the night or time survive, and the ground ashes of a tome of bodice rippers by some popular bard, the higher the quality of the paper and writing, the better, though some claim success from using tomes or scrolls of salacious poetry also works. (I have yet to try that, as many of those are written only on the flayed skin of the writer or his victims, most of those poets being devils of some sort. The bards are just greedy, charging massively for their works,  but the bodice-ripper tales work just fine and are more readily available, trust me.) Further, one can add the following things to make them more palatable, or use in other methods than ingestion: To make a salve of it, add distillate of fiery dragon sputum for a thick, warming to the skin salve; soak a stick of rosewood spliced to cinnamon-wood, then dry for use as incense; one can create a perfume by adding muskrat spray, for everyone knows muskrat love is just temporary, until spring when she will run away; and last, my most common request, eau-de-toilet, to bury the stench of one’s dinner aftermath, so one’s hopeful night’s companion will stay the night, not just until the first hints dinner is done being digested.

As to their preparation, this is where it gets very tricky. Take careful notes, fellow practitioners and hopeful students, for these are not meant to be made in the simple lead cauldrons of witches in the woods, nor the stewpot of some serving wench desperate for release from a bad contract with an innkeeper. These potions are very volatile, pose dire health risks to the alchemist, and are known to leave behind nasty residues that either taker forever to clean up properly, or make the vessels and tools unusable for anything short of beating off servers of summons before the throne afterwards.

Love potions may only be brewed properly over a fire made of untainted, unfortified wines, stomped into juice from grapes only by the washed feet of red-headed virgins, held in a brazier of gold with feet of alabaster and supports made of fine bones from a lovebird, but works best when the crystal (cut only for this one use, from virgin rock outcrops exposed by the blow of a good-natured giant upon a mountain of limestone, not granite), and supported by the feathers of said lovebird. A bird of paradise’s feathers and bones may also be used, but only if you wish for matrimony and the ensuing long-term destruction of one’s social life by such a union afterwards. The ingredients must be simmered only for nine moons, to ensure fertile hearts will accept them, then filtered through a sandwich of white silk, silkworm, not spider, unless one wants love devouring you, and charcoal ash from the fire cauldrons of the Vestal Virgins’ heart offering sacrificial blazes, a layer of thinly sliced corned beef, as love is corny at times, and last a pad of wool from a lamb’s first shearing. This is then drained into a funnel of mother of pearl lined diamond crusted gold, into a vial made of silver made from coins of the realm minted in the years the intended victims, um, users, were born. The preferred stopper for the vial should be freshly cut cork, soaked in seafoam overnight before using.

Lust potions, being more earthy, just require clay vessels to hold the fire, lit from the sparks of common sulfur matches, with supports of brass for the brewing vessel, which can be of any metal save gold or lead, alloys preferred, as the mixture of metals ensures the shelf life of the potion, so you may brew well in advance of the season of heart breaking to ensure maximum profits from efforts. It can be stored in lead crystal vials, with simple rock salt caps, or hardened lard seals. Brewing takes little effort, just let it all sit in the open air on a brothel roof for a night, or a window sill downwind of one, and then boil it until a froth forms, before cooling in the breath of a frigid woman’s snores overnight. The latter ensures the potion’s temporary nature, using the snores of a dragon can make the fires stirred eternal, and lead to other issues on top of malpractice claims by Cupid and Eros

Now, as to dealing with litigation issues, I have found most of these come from “Undesired Conception” claims filed in court afterwards, by several moons, and thus remember to make your vials of the Lust potions to hold two layers of potion, the standard Non-conception formula on top, and to be drank first, with the lust provoker under a separate, difficult to remove except by excited young lovers seal between them. The reason is that if you allow the users to administer themselves the potions separately, they inevitably get excited, forget to do that or place the required cockatrice corpse under the bed to ensure slaying the fertility of their union, and they skip the prophylactic dosage before giving in to the potion.

Regardless of which potion you make, be sure to visit the local lust and love god/goddess temple first, before each step, making a small offering of about five percent of your projected income, lest the priestesses, or worse, the gods themselves, take umbrage over your practice of the arts inside their fields, and seek compensation beyond your income from your endeavors, as was the case with Rapscallion the Pauper, who never again could even afford a dram of water, let alone other ingredients, and was reduced to making simple balms for chapped lips by the various injunctions Cupid gained from a judge who desired to become the Queen’s Lover, granting the god all incomes save that for the rest of his natural life, and six more after it.

Take care with the methods and place of brewing them as well, for improper timing of the stages can lead to explosive results. Or deadly ones, as Heathen Harold found out, when he failed to ensure the cooking of his Love potion under the proper moon of the year, which is the third blue cheese moon, the second blue moon of the harvest season, when the blue flies are hatching in the cheese, which is cut downwind from all towns, for safety of all’s noses.

Further, one should have a devil draft a contract for all purchasers to sign, waiving all liability for misuse, improper use, wrongful consumption by unintended targets (as Marcius Solarius should have, when his customers failed to use their potions correctly, and wound up allowing a group of extremely foul ogresses to imbibe with them, leading to considerable time spent at court fighting the claimants’ petitions for a cure for their love potion to release them from being forced to live with such hideous beasts, which ended his career by sheer extent of time spent thusly, instead of preparing potions), and other misadventures such a potion might take. (Notably, the incident of Jareth Jarhead’s improper disposal of a lust potion vial into the watershed near a battlefield, and the resulting conquest of Amazonia by an army of men, or vice versa, depending upon the point of view of the generals involved, when the warriors on both sides departed without fighting, spending decades populating a former wasteland with a horde of feral children from their unions.)

Also, there is the matter of disposal of the materials left over by the concoction process, which can also leach into the environment, creating strange new beasts, population explosions like Jareth’s disaster, explosions like my own currently debated at court here in Thogras disposal of the dragon’s heart causing a volcano to form, and the like. Proper prior planning prevents prolific predatory profit purloining petitions, remember the nine “p’s”, my students.

Hunting of the Ilk - A poem of word slippage

Elusive beasts,
hiding from most folks,
amid the very crowds
they seek to be separate from,
as they move secretly
to avoid being found.

Shared beliefs
build up their herd,
in soft spoken words
murmured in quiet places, far scattered,
where they bunch up
before breaking off singly.

Long sought
by those who wish
for kindred thinking souls
who walk and talk the same
as those seeking them.
Yet, so rarely found.

Hunting for my Ilk,
only to find them gone,
or never in places I search,
leaves me wondering out loud
"Are they mythical beasts?"

They hide,
the Ilk I seek,
fearing becoming their foes,
the ancient predators called many names,
mostly, "the In-Crowd",
who destroy by popularity.

Brief glimpses
in hazy summer air,
smoke filled back rooms,
bookstores, libraries, even fancy coffee shops,
and, still, no proof
they really do exist.

Sneaking away,
the Ilk find refuge
away from all others,
even those of their own kind,
making them nigh impossible
to approach or join.

We all hunt Ilk,
to mingle with at will,
and let our shields drop down
to show the inner flames
our beliefs burn with.

Like minds,
proves yet another lie,
when one finds them,
bunched up at a watering hole,
for all their talk,
too many divisions remain.

Choices made
ban one from herds
the Ilk make daily.
Wrong politics, foolish religious beliefs espoused,
or just simpler things,
like what one wears.

Amid darkness,
punctuated by flickering light,
the ghostly prey wanders
only on the ether called "Internet",
to prove their existence
or lure more hunters.

Never found my Ilk,
save in that one place,
where electrons flow as strange streams,
and data forms wild forests
created from our imaginations.

Yet still I hunt
for them in our world,
to see if they do exist
or are just small figments
of my dark imagination.

Once more,
back to the hunt,
sneaking about the world,
ears open for the few hints
that they do exist.
For, I am still....

...Hunting Ilk.

14June2014 - Dyfedd Rex

That #@#$%! Season Again.

The Dunderheads are rising,
up on both horizons,
Left and Far Right,
leaving me fearing greatly,
this coming political season.

Ware the Dunderheads roaring,
their battle cries strident
against the soft words
the Centrists all speak,
drowning out intelligent thoughts.

This is the season,
when the political cyclones
gather in their names
to entertains a few,
and sicken the rest.

You know this season,
by the counter's ticking
as we log cases
of "Foot in Mouth"
and "Pants Spontaneously Combusting".

Sadly, this yammering crowd
takes to damned long
to thin out enough
for reasonable folks' work
to choose be easy.

Yeah, mock me, gang.
But really, I'm right.
The earliest contenders in
are rarely the ones
who survive to end.

So, hear my call
ye of the words,
mockers of foolish actions,
and sane society members,
and unleash the Sarcasm.

For they resist Truth,
prove lacking of Honesty,
lack all moral Courage,
and worst of all,
can't take a Joke.

So smack them around,
until they speak truth,
or bow out fast,
lest we really unload
with more than Sarcasm.

For I have loaded
Double Ought Truth Shot,
soaked in Sour Sarcasm,
and carried by sabot
carved from pure Satire.

And that is just the first rounds, the rest? Oh, much more psychically damaging to fragile political hack egos.
27March2015 - Dyfedd Rex

Stoned Bunnies? Or Jackalopes Soon To Appear?

If you have a problem with this poem, blame this post, and the dude who tweaked it, and the one who opened mouth/inserted foot before a committee this week.
Stoned Rabbits in the Washington Post.

Fearful we must be
of illegal grow operations
that will proliferate more
with legalizing marijuana for medicine.

For the innocent young bunnies
will nibble on leaves,
then, whilst stoned beyond belief,
go courting with proghorns.

Yes, fear this, folks.
for soon many more walls
will bear the fruit
of those intoxicated wildlife trysts.

I foresee an even greater
proliferation of jackalopes coming,
an Armageddon of antlered rodents
storming across Western deserts.

And all know, indeed,
the dangers that will spur
to those who visit
not aware the beasts' habits.

They charge in to nuzzle,
for getting their lances
rising betwixt their long ears,
and spear unwary tourists.

When found on roads,
the dangers compound very quickly,
as tires get blown
by those sharpened natural defenses.

The setback to the economy
will roll across states,
as the new born species
doth duly multiply swift.

First the accident costs
will skyrocket across the boards
as the critter prove
stoned from their birth indeed.

Not to mention taxidermists' woes
when flooded with requests
to mount only the largest
of these new beasts.

Yea, this is trouble,
for what else might breed
out amid illegal fields
of such mind warping plants?

Could we see eagles hatching
after mating with cougars
and hence returning mythical griffins
to our skies soon?

To be sure, folks
I admit his other warnings
are far more likely,
but mine are more dire...

to our ribs at least
as we all laugh
when they find live jackalopes
for scientists to explain.
4March2015-a bemused and chuckling Dyfedd Rex.

Impish Urges

The ad dangled,
hung out there sweetly
like a low, inside heater,
so I swung away
aiming for bleachers.

Not an application
to the job offered
but a correction of error
some HR flak made
about qualifications needed.

Why a job
inside one particular state
needs a licence from another
lying with another between
still gives mirth.

I was nice,
just advising them about
the error made in haste,
rather than tossing snark
about substance abuse.

Still, I wonder.
Why can other make
mistakes like that one there,
and any of mine
cost me dearly?

I shade eyes,
watching the moment sail
out of the park slow,
no snark, no vitriol
save this poem.

So, beware all,
I'm in a mood,
likely to "T" off hard
on your errors now,
instead of letting
sleeping dogs lie.

26February2015 - An amused, but still jobless, Dyfedd Rex.

Celebrating Bad News Milestones

Sometimes, you just have to laugh at the bad news in your life.

Take today. Four companies who I applied for positions back in September to December just had a race to see who got to be Job Rejection #2000, emails flowing in over a 45 minute period.

And, that started me to howling in laughter. I'd left after that milestone, to pull out my January royalty money, all 4 bucks and some change, to buy an ounce of pipe tobacco to deal with reaching this dubious mark, and when I got back, lo and behold, the other three emails were there.

First, it was just a chuckle, then I lost it, and started howling with laughter, which jars many folks nerves, over this debacle.

Okay, not the sanest response. Or is it? Look, at least I'm not grabbing a hatchet and seeking fame as an ax murderer, no, I'm just trying to do my best Joker laugh, without the accompanying mayhem that villain wrecks upon society.

And, deep down, this is funny. You see, it means that jobs I was passed over on, I am still considered as the fall back guy if the ones chosen fail to prove out. This means, yes, that things are not as clear and dry as they seem on all these rejections. Yeah, I could still snap the losing streak, but does this mean things will improve? How the hell would I know? I'm just the punching bag for the economic downturn, or one of them, at least.

So, if you hear my horrid laugh, realize there is a reason. Let me alone as I smoke a pipe in the last few good hours of weather this week, and find my center again. Then, back off, and let me figure out what goal to set next. Should I offer a free ebook of my poetry to the HR flak who rejects me on time #2500? Write the next set of interview givers into a tale, complete with my equivilant of a red shirt on the original Star Trek Series? Maybe offer to never write the person who hires me into a tale or poem?

Yeah, I'm feeling quirky, after this milestone. If nothing else, at least I was considered for 2000 jobs seriously, by polite companies, as I lost track of the times I watched the resume find circular file 13 before I got out the door when dropping an application in person.

Wait, maybe the real need is to write some fool into a tale who causes job rejections. Is there a Job Rejection Fairy? Or did the Fey folk farm that out to their lesser pixie kin? Is it a goblin, or some recently evicted troll, pissed over his bridge crumbling to the point that the local code forced him out from under it?


Yep, Life gives you lemons, slice them up for mixed drink side pieces. If only I could afford some rum and coke to go with them.

Insert your own image of me sticking my tongue out while making a weird face. I'm too busy laughing to do it myself.

GAH!

So, after saying I would be silent, something dropped on Amazon today, forcing me to speak up, to support the other writers besides me in the anthology of drabbles...

Fair warning, before reading mine. It kinda explains why I'm still single, lacking a heart or sense of romance as I do.

just 99 cents at Amazon, follow the image or the link on the sidebar, buy a copy, and help support writers, and a certain bum. Morale only this one, but still, every little bit helps.

**UPDATED**

For those not in the USA, follow the link in the tab page up top of the blog marked OVERSEAS.. even if no real sea exists between you and the USA. 

Satire interview with Buck the Bum

The following is satire, unless you are homeless, in which case, you probably can relate to it. Buck is a figment of my imagination, as is this reporter.

Buck the Bum, met on the street by our intrepid reporter...

When appraised of the current move by the Utah Legislature on a bill banning "aggressive" panhandling.... boy, that made him unload both barrels.

IR: Excuse me, can I ask you some questions, I'm with the Town Jester, a news outlet that seeks folks input on issues that just beg for lampooning.

Buck: Sure, just don't block the sign, will ya, and stay back by the tree, look like your passed out or something, otherwise folks think I'm dealing drugs, and I hate having folks get pissed for handing me money and not giving them their good time stuff in return. You have to duck flying lead and do paperwork with the cops when they leave you alive.

IR: So, this is a broad bill, HR101, kind of reads like another attempt at making any panhandling illegal again.

Buck: Yeah, biggest panhandlers on the planet, they're scared of the competition we are giving them.

IR: What?

Buck: Look, these bums looked at their campaign coffers, and realized donations was down. They see us out here making money, and viola, we are the real reason for their shortfall in earnings. Hell, folks is giving us more, as at least we bums is honest. (Taps his sign, which reads: "Yeah, I'm going to get high, but at least I ain't a politician.")

IR: Look, you know that some of you do get aggressive.. and act unsafe? Right?

Buck: Yeah, once they get hit enough, they can't do stupid things like that. Shame for the folks that hit 'em. But, you ain't gonna cure stupid with rules. Just makes them dumber, and wastes your time.

IR: So, you are for the law?

Buck: Hell, no. Look, Like I said, this bill is all about them being scared we're out here getting money that they used to get. And with all the scandals and disgust about political >bleep<, they are right to be scared. I mean, really, why give them taxes and money on the side? At least when you tip waitresses, you get better service. Tip politicians? They come back for more, and raise your taxes to boot.

IR: Like the homeless pay taxes. You have no report-able income.

Buck: Look, still spend some of this in stores, that gets taxed, same as everyone else. And, I smoke. I ain't really trying to get high, it's my gimmick. But tobacco is taxed at, what, about one-hundred forty percent. About a third of my money goes there. I bet I pay more in tax than most folks do, as a percentage.

IR: Right. So, still not reported on the income?

Buck: Not all of us make a fortune out here. Most days, you get a few coins, not much, less than a fiver, others you strike it rich, and more days than you admit, you leave the corner empty handed, or with supplies only. Drinks, food, maybe some gloves or other stuff. I don't fly that often. Figure, at best, even the most die-hard only make about sixty-five hundred a year, and that is under the deductible. I know, looked it up out of curiosity. Me, I'm lucky to get fifty, maybe sixty a month. I only fly for a limited time, and walk away early if I exceed a certain amount. Pass that mark by big, and I won't fly for a week or more, sometimes three. Out of  respect for the gifts and the givers. Unless I have to.

IR: Back to the bill, how would it impact you?

Buck: Make it tougher, reduce the number of corners we can use, which means the druggies and boozers will be more belligerent at trying to rule corners. Fights will go up, as will crimes against the homeless. You jam us in tight into a few spots, and it attracts the problems of drugs and stupidity like flies to >bleep<. Might reduce the posers, those fakes who come out here, pretending to be one of us. But, it won't stop the fools from doing this in dumb places, so the cops will be tied up enforcing this stuff, and not able to work on the bigger issues of real crimes, like the drug dealings and robberies that are spiking up a bit, with the down economy. Not saying it ain't a good idea, just not a wise one at this time. Fix the economy, fix the system, and this will taper off. Just remember it, and fix the laws then, or better, redesign the unsafe spots so they can't be used.

IR: You think that will end homelessness? Fixing the economy.

Buck (after long fit of laughter): Dude, there been homeless folks since we came down from the trees, or Adam and Eve got evicted from Eden, depending upon your point of view. This country was built from homeless folks. >bleep<, even the Native Americans ancestors were homeless, before shifting to grounds here to hunt. Everyone in America has at least a few homeless bums in their woodpile.
End it? Forget that. You can reduce it, make it less of a crime magnet, but you will never lick it. Besides, we homeless walk in good company. Look at the who's who of the homeless. Ghandi was homeless, Andy Jackson, a president, was one for a while after the Revolution, Davy Crockett, Wild Bill Hickock, most of those that came west? Homeless. Then, for the religious who mock us, well...Moses, Lot, Abraham, Jesus of Nazreth, John the Baptist, Mohammed, Buddha? All homeless at some time. Best we can do, try to keep the numbers down, and give hope it will end. Real hope, not those rollercoaster rides most suffer trying to get out.
Buck:(looks around, still smiling) Yeah, kind of funny, I think. You look at who is really aggressive about getting money. At least we don't use phones to disturb your meals at home with calls for money to "beat" our opponents. Anything that much fun, we do personally, not with ads or posters. And we got 'em scared of losing money to us. The dregs of society. (laughs) Yep. And if they keep having all these problems in their own ranks, folks actually might uptick the money to us over giving to them. Or, maybe, one of us should run for their offices. They can't complain if we are better than them, and honest about we plan to pocket most of it. After all, we're just bums.

Buck shooed me off, after that last bit. Said he looked too happy, and folks were afraid he was planning something criminal as he looked at them.

The Ultimate Terrorist - A bit of Fried Food Day Satire

You might think that as a member of the Homeless Community, I fear the gangs and addicts hanging around us, slinging drugs, stealing stuff, and the like. But it ain't so.

I still fear the one branch of criminal activity we will never control. The mafia so determined to win, even Al Qaeda and the Sicilians sit in awe over their perseverance. Terrorists to us all, capable of far more dollar damage at the individual level than anything short of a natural disaster.

And this morning, I detoured around the long way to check on the local branches of this foul organization, wondering what dark thing they plan next. What I saw sent shivers of horror down my spine.

The Wild Ones are nearing that time of year, when they wreak havoc on us all.

They're up there, watching for their moments. All the branches and chapters.

The most aggressive stand just inside the cemeteries, ears twitching as they choose targets. Occasionally one lowers his or her head, tossing it about while pawing the grass, before calming down, head still low, eyes narrowed, ears tilted back. The others look at them, trembling as they know what was said.

"Dibs".

And thus the fate of yet another poor motorist is sealed, as some buck, doe, or foolish fawn claims the right to ruin our day, choosing our car to take with them to the "other side".


Saw it this morning. That old buck with the graying muzzle, looking around at the young rivals and deciding he was done, then glancing through the fence towards the road. He's looking for his target now, the car to claim as his headstone or monument of destructive suicide. Might take a while, he seems picky about who to inflict the insurance claim upon. Might even wait for better weather, and a chance for a convertible.

Yes, Deer. And you know they are pissed off when they reach out to their allies and cousins to make matters worse.

It's organized, believe me... and when they feel you are beneath worth, they'll taunt some foolish pronghorn or armadillo out onto the pavement to collect their rightful due for them. Sometimes a fat raccoon or other beast gets conned into taking the fall for the events. They love to watch your shocked expressions, frantic braking or swerving, and revel at the satisfying "Bang-Crunch" noises that follow, especially if they can survive unscathed, and rack up a tally before heading to the Happy Grazing Grounds.

Worst is when they call upon the ultimate enforcers, seeking vengeance on even the largest vehicles. Ol' Uncle Bullwinkle and Cousin Wapiti smirk at the mass, lean in a shoulder and take on even semi's, just to keep us all on our toes.

All this, just for racing through their turf, those neighborhoods called "Rural", "Urban-(blank) Interface" or "Open Space".

And you have to watch out for their own Black-And-Whites:, the most feared of all. The little demons that issue tickets even without stopping you, or any contact. God help the poor driver following that minivan with the health-conscious mom that tosses out the half finished pack of donettes... the buggers smell that rich, chocolate caked pastry from miles away, diving in like TV cops on a box of full-sized donuts, tail raised to let all know, you interfere with our investigation of this littering, we will tag your vehicle beyond redemption of several power-washes. And no make or model is safe from their vigilance, even the light rail trains carry the citations they issue, as any nose can tell.

Yes, beware the Wild Ones.... the ultimate terrorists, who can dive through windshields, serve their own home search warrants and against whom there is no legal recourse!
Take heed, folks, those critters are up to something, their "Chatter" is up....

never look at the news. - advice and commentary

Okay, I looked. Mea Culpa. Now, I cannot stop laughing and groaning over the fact that the boy that inspired me to create Troy Tanner and CRAPP is back at it again.

That jester named Dyer claims he has yet another dead Sasquatch/Bigfoot to show the world. This time in Texas. As with the last time, he claims to killed it well before, and had it tested and confirmed.

I have to say it now. One word, and I bet others agree.

Bullshit.

This is the same moron and friends from the fiasco in 2008. Remember them having one in a freezer down in Georgia? While it would be fun if it was real, my money is on it being yet another hoax. But, I guarantee you, I will both rework and sell the first Troy Tanner story I wrote, about that fiasco, and a new one, sending them out to publishers to make fun of him as I try making a few bucks and get folks to giggle or laugh out loud.

Oh, yeah. That's why I read the news. You never know when the Muses are speaking through the mass media.

Nervous Laughter in the Offing - just gabbing today, nervously.

There is this great feeling when things finally go right in your life.

Looking back over this long slog to this point, I'm laughing a lot right now. You see, the last half-dozen or so interviews, when asked about a five year plan, I tell them the only one I can make right now is to get published in five years, as I'm just a homeless guy. Published for money, that is. It warned them all that while I had a bet with myself that I'd not mind losing, that writing would send money my way before a job might, but would love losing that bet. They all laughed.

I'm waiting right now, thinking, gee, I get to have that special root beer float at the Baskin-Robbins or Hire's Big H, maybe.

So, I wait, hoping to win the bet, yet praying I lose it. The next few weeks will tell me how that bet comes out. I might have to revise that five year plan, updating for a slightly more ambitious goal. Be nice, fun even, if I do. Starting to think it can happen. And if it does, plan on rolling out that e-book of my poems, when I get a moment to take a few breaths, and maybe add a dollar figure on poetry collection money to it.

So, if I look nervous the next little while, as I hold my cardboard sign the rare times I have to, cut me some slack. I'm just getting used to the idea of maybe having money earned, rather than resorting to the charity of others for my coffee and tobacco funds. And, maybe, down the road, a dash of other needed things, while laughing as I walk about, over a bet I made in jest, to lighten a moment around a question I've always hated.

Talking out an Idea - My Writing Process Revealed

Happy Moaner's Day.

Welcome to my world, where the only thing left about holidays is trying to figure out which places honor that holiday and shut down, and which stay open. So in keeping with that, I say, heck with Columbus Day, let's call it something else, and make office pukes work on it.

That said, and it's about all I want to say about it, I need to move ahead with some things.

First, while I have no clue as to a title yet, the steampunk idea seems to have torn apart the competition, and is moving ahead as my NaNoWriMo project this year, just to pry it off the inside of my skull, where it has been residing akin to a starfish on a rock, pressing on my thought-slime at odd moments with disruptive vibrations.

I'm thinking you may see little pieces of flash. micro and even a short or two appear here in that world setting as part of my set up and search for the right voice for this tale. If I do, I will try to give some heading so those not interested can skip it. Feedback, however, would be greatly appreciated.

Still tinkering with the full idea, trying to decide how to make the changes to the original 2011 try at steampunk, and if I can rework it, allowing me to get two marketable manuscripts out of the NaNoWriMo experience.

First, it's time to set up the world setting a whole lot better, and let it evolve out to modern times from the period piece the first story resided as.

If you see smoke rolling from under my hat, please confirm my skull/hair are on fire before dowsing, I hate wasting tobacco when folks hit me with fire-hoses/extinguishers.


We are at W minus 16 days and some hours (not enough coffee to do the math this morning yet!) and Counting to the madness and mayhem of NaNoWriMo.

Truth in Advertising - More Pun then Poem

On the lighter side....

Folks keep telling me
"You are what you eat."
Holy Bat Guano, folks!
I can barely afford tobacco
now I need lawyers
to change my name legally
for truth in advertising
to say, perhaps, Chip zenDonuts?
lest I really anger
some roaming cannibal named Hannibal
by not tasting right.

no, I ain't gonna put the tag line on this one... share it, if you're in the same boat.

Seven-Poppa Situation in Humor - A poem of streets and poor planning by others.

It was a seven-poppa situation.
Those who know that military phrase
can chuckle over that, ducking heads,
while everyone else looks around confused.

The race put up no signns
for directions around the closed areas
where the festiveal blocked the way
and construction prevented a safe passage.

With just a little more forethought,
They could have avoided the chaos
or having the homeless give directions
on finding their Start-Finish line!

So, this guy flew a kite
telling them the signed for 10K!
Three just finding the Registration Booth,
five ran, two back to cars!

Got some smiles, a few dirty looks
and even a bunch of laughs
on telling them you knocked off
half K cutting past the C&C.

Still thinking I oughta bill 'em
for providing entertainment and good directions
over not staging their own voluteers
strategically along the proper route there.

So next time you see me,
the guy in that battered hat,
Remember, I tried to help out,
and toss me a friendly wave!

22June2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Call of the Elephant - A poem of anger management gone to ego inflation.

Mom will probably invoke
that dreaded Rule One
as the towers rise
in the sky above
tempting me to dance.

The Elephant stalks today
calling me to cavort,
with black clouds rising
over the mountain ranges
yet to drift near.

Do those thunderheads soar
in response to moods
I feel down here?
Or is my anger
fueled by resonating rumbles?

Above me they rise,
like angry gods' fists,
as air spirits toss
their spite to mortals,
and occassionally, the Finger.

I feel their call,
to dance under anvils
where Thor's hammer falls
and lightning races beneath,
something I've always known.

Am I so powerful?
To raise those tempests?
Or is that vanity,
twisting me around wickedly
on her fickle fingers?

I need those storms
to break across me,
cleansing my soul again
of worry and stress,
leaving my slate clean.

But I know not,
even deep within me,
if I call them,
or they beckon me
to a doom fore-ordained.

Watching, I feel turbulence,
not just amid atmosphere,
but that dark place
others still have hearts,
calling out in anger.

Break, oh might storm,
let that old beast
flick his tail now,
towards me or away
that I may know....
... is it just me, or real?

15May2013 - Dyfedd Rex between lines of boomers forming still.

Misuse of Impressive -

"Your skills are certainly Impressive.."
just don't pay the piper,
as the job search continues
for permanent place in society
and a return to stability.

Impressive is not the word
you really should use there.
Stop stroking my broken ego,
and build it up instead
by laying out job offers.

If I really made impressions
besides in the psychic ground
they would not be shaped
like that famed Coyote's form,
despite my affinity to him.

At least the stray cats
loan me a few lives,
or a bit of agility
to land on my feet
despite the spills I take.

This is the daily pain
as the homeless guy tries
to get back on track.
You fight through the depression
to stay positive about Life.

So I write my stories
to channel the pain away
into a safe emotional dump.
But still I keep trying,
with those immortal military words....
   ... "Eff it, drive on."

15May2013 - Dyfedd Rex (Still trying)

Give me a Moment, Muses! - A poem of too many ideas

I tried working a story.
Honestly, I really did today.
But poems flowed out instead,
jamming the brain waves harshly.

So now I sit here,
typing the jumbled runoff fast
trying hard to stay afloat
amid my mind's turbulent stream.

Oh, please let me edit instead, my muses!
I feel better with virtual chainsaw in hand!
Chopping words up to bury in deep trenches!

Coffee and smoke both failed
to let me recover control!
So the poems dance out
over keyboard issuing dust clouds.

This is my writing life,
dealing with what feels right
to pour out for others
as the moment grabs me.

Oh, give me a moment, my fair muses!
To catch my breath before shifting gears again!
Lest I grind away my fragile mental gears!

Now the story calls again.
Stridently the characters demand attention!
Pissed off over their neglect
as poetry distracted a while.

Hear them plotting against me?
Seeking to flee these confines?
They demand better working conditions,
shorter hours, less mid-stream interruptions!

Oh, here we go again, my quirky muses!
Handing me pen for one hand, eraser other!
You wily wenches know I'm not really ambidextrous!

Quiet moments often get shattered
by conflicting tales to tell
that each demand full attention
lest they throw temper tantrums!

This is why some drink!
Oh, indeed, it really is!
Now back in your cages,
you unruly mentally conjured mob!

Oh, bring me a whip tonight, my muses!
The characters you favored me with impishly
have decided to throw a riot inside me!

Noises without me pass fast,
barely heard above their din.
I try to keep flowing
but the stream runs dry.

One of these damned days,
I'm gonna invest in tools
that scare off jaded characters
who just want more attention.

Oh, hand me that plot twist, my muses!
The characters deserve even more pain this day!
Unless they promise to stop with the contradictions!
Not to mention lose their jealousy of poems!

18April2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Working on a new story today... CRAPP tale from Troy Tanner

It's kind of nice when one of my more easy to deal with characters sits down to relate a tale to me. At least Troy drinks coffee, not tea, and his only snob points are the coffee must be black, bitter, hot and near a bar for the really strange parts.

The tale he spent the morning so far relating centers around vampires, or at least the messy aftermath after they get staked. Seems that vampire dust is a leading cause of anemia, at least according to CRAPP regulations.

Probably will market this one, the working title so far is "The Great SoCal Vampire Dustbowl Cleanup". Not happy with it, will have to find something better, unless it proves to work when done. Amazing how many undead are cops so far....

Head Trips and Brain Stumbles - A poem about my noggin

Its like a stone,
this growth on my neck
tripping me up with random thoughts
to fall harshly face first
into my own misunderstandings.

Other times we waltz
as ideas circle brain's stem
whirling about to some strange melody
missing collisions by quark whiskers
or striking fusions' agonies.

Yes, this noggin's facets
many and freshly exposed raw
can give the glimmer of jewels
though more often than not
my head trips fail.

There's a pile somewhere,
full of ruined bumpers certainly
a few drive shafts and gears
torn apart when neurons stick
out stumble creating legs.

Yes, I'm a blockhead,
a stumble-bum of words
who stutters around the pretty gals
or when fingers dance keyboards
seeking to tell tales.

So watch your step
lest the rubble in here
trip you deeper into my head
where things get lost regularly
until they ooze out....
in prose or verse.

8Febuary2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Passing on the Chili

This one won't be in the ebook, but its another one from recent events at the shelter...
enjoy.


Some folks fed us homeless, the other night.
Chili, cornbread and tons of sweet treats.
So it goes, in the giving season here
among the abandoned buildings and slowly gentrifying neighborhood.
but one comment came out, not meant meanly
when they offered us the remains without limit.
"Ma'am, three hundred Ninety of us sleep here
in one room, two or three per stack.
I don't think more chili is what's needed
if we want the building to remain standing."
She laughed at it, admitting to the danger,
but keeping the offer open to all there.
But that night, the guy's prophecy proved true.
Each and every on of us snored all night
from both danged ends, as the saying goes.
So, please. If we pass on some foods
don't call us ungrateful, just momentarily full
and scared of the breaking wind fireball effect.

4January2013  - Dyfedd Rex