Murphy Deals Nothing But Nineteens - a Poem of Life as Cribbage

(been a while since I spoke of the cribbage game I so often see life as... bear with me, ye who know not that counting by fifteens is important somehow.)


Murphy showed,
took a seat,
shoved the board over,
and started to deal
without cutting first,
to decide.

Foolish me,
I accepted challenge.
And now stare hard
at cards that are useless
unless he plays wrong
during the peg,
unlikely event.

Nineteen hands,
all I see,
no matter who deals,
as my luck fades away
into the convective debris
cloaking night sky
rotating above.

Can't peg,
cannot even score,
even the crib's crap,
touched by a sinister hand
of his fickle mistress,
ol' Lady Luck,
joining in.

Life watches,
as does Fate,
God's too busy elsewhere
to interfere this time around,
so I slog on.
Each hand draining
away hope.

He rounds
that First Corner,
steamrolls across Double Skunk
as I creep down holes
that try to suck
me into Hell
each move.

Each failure
echoed in Life
who snarls over this
despite her best efforts lately
to let me recover.
Murphy's ideas, though,
are different.

Anger flares,
as he passes
across the Skunk Line,
with me eking out points
only when his ego
over-extends cards
he holds.

Mugged him
twice along way,
but still his pegs
keep their bloody, damned distance,
And the cards refuse
to cooperate any,
never delivering.

Three hands
it takes him
to manage to win,
pegging out by baiting me
into seeking six points
for three fives,
fourth his.

Another loss,
and anger rising,
I reset the pegs,
snarling at that distant cousin,
knowing it won't help
but needing to
vent steam.

No clue
how next game
will yet play out,
but looking at my hand,
I got an idea
I won't like
the results...
anymore
than
last
time.

17July2015 - A pissed off and desperate Dyfedd Rex, seeking at least an eight or twelve hand, to break this drought of luck.

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.

Plans Still In Flux

Well, most of my plans never survived contact with the 'main enemy', known to most as "the economy", so it is back to the drawing board,.

One thing is for certain, writing will become my main focus, and I will be offering more ebooks directly soon, and some tales here might be those books. Nothing personal, but I need the money, no matter how little.

So, that said, as I clear out from this place over the next few weeks, wishing things had gone better for all, I will become that angry, middle-aged, white man again. I just hope that does not flow into my writings, beyond the cyberpunk stories I plan to start soon, if I can figure out the world setting for it.

I have updated the WiP's list, and plan to focus on those, soon, maybe even as I transition back to the streets and hills. If this is not to your liking, tough, your society made these choices to force me there as much as I did.

If you feel I deserve help, buy one of my self-published eBooks, #supportabum. At least you get something in return, even if I don't get all the proceeds and have to wait 3-4 months to get the cash.

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.

The End of all things

There is always an end to things. This is not really mine. Who knows, maybe when I left, a while ago, leaving these canned bits of my anger to drop out of the sky into the Cloud... Maybe, I took paper and pen with me, or figured some way to haul and charge the computer...

You may not know. Hell, I could even be locked up in a padded cell (I'm sure lots of folks think I belong there, just like I think they do as well). Or, I found my peaceful place, and sit there, pipe and hat still with me, relaxing as I let the tension of trying to rejoin the world drain away.

Perhaps, some small bits of my work, tossed about by my editing chainsaw, might streak through this virtual sky, leaving a smoking trail behind them of words here later?

Not telling.

Unless, of course, I wind up on a beach, surrounded by a bevy of bikini gals willing to fight off the squirrels whilst I smoke and sip my coffee, coke, or root beer float. Then I'd rub it in your faces.

So, perchance we will or have met, as I wandered away, and you now ask, why?

Petty revenge, anger, and just pure disgust made me toss it all to the web, waving aside forever the chance for dollars. You got all I want to give of the tales so far... perhaps. Then again, who knows?

Me, the Shadow, and three heartless wenches do, but the latter are mean gals... Billenius's mistresses, the Fates, or Parcae...

Happy holiday of your choice... me, I'm long gone... and better for it, I hope.

Paths of Damnation 1

Enough was enough. It was bad enough that the Imperatrix had allowed the Insulae to return to the fold after many ages, but to place many of those bigoted fools into places of power within the Empire, even to this distant outpost of her power, was idiocy, plain and simple. And the one she sent to take over here in Amoeni Terrai was a total incompetent. We sat there, at the table, Antonius and I, drinking our wine, and complaining about the new boss, who was nothing like the old one.

At least Urbania had known her limits in relation to her knowledge of the terrain when she came here. The fool from the Hantius gens walked in and told us we did not need to have water delivered to the outposts in the sands, there was water enough there. Even in the wettest years, the gullies in the hard clay badlands below the sandy plateau ran dry over half the year, and the tanks and oasis were dry for the same in dry years. But you cannot convince a Decurius of anything, short of doing it at blade point. The sad part was that the fool we had been sent was also related to my drinking companion, a fact Antonius kept apologizing for, buying bottles of our vintage, and cussing his father's clan.

Galenia Hantia was a moron, to think that we should summon water by spell to a place where even the greatest of mages had never even tried. But nothing we said here would matter. Unless it got back to her, in which case we could expect the worst jobs, the crummiest assignments, and no thanks for doing them. I had a luxury Antonius did not, I was at the end of my current enlistment in the Legion of the Custodians. If I chose, at the end of the season, only days away, I could walk away. Tony had to stay another three turnings of the seasons. Three long years of torture, unless the Hantia took a ride into the deserts with her attitude, and did not come back.

Corvinius, the master of our thousand, rarely sent idiots to the edge of the Grey Desert. That he was doing so this time worried me as to what was the conditions back home. Antonius seemed concerned as well, being from the islands, where the council of elders of the Ten Families ruled now with an iron fist. The same council that was attempting to suborn those who sat in the Forum with their lies and subversion of the freedoms we Numeni so fiercely defend normally.

I poured another goblet of wine for each of us, and smiled at my rival and friend. "I might as well be drunk when I resign. That way Corvinius cannot have an excuse to come gather me back to the fold." I lifted my drink to eye level, staring at Tony across the rim. "To the Imperatrix, long may she live."

While my companion was of the Insualae, his loyalty to the realm was still there. "Indeed. I may not agree with her or her policies, but they are better than the fools trying to remove her have." We drank swiftly, and set the goblets down to relax a bit more. Tony was thinking his way through things still, as in how to deal with what he would be left with.

I broke the silence, not to rub things in, but to keep others from joining us. When we were talking, everyone kept their distance from us for fear of the fight to come, when we drank silently, they came over to find out who had passed on to their next life.

"Well, luckily, Nonia is free too, and out west, at Pelori. I will cross the desert and maybe even ask her to take me to the Matriarch of her clan for approval." That got a startled move and then a laugh.

"Perfidio! Bill, you and Nonia have danced around it long enough, get married, boy. Hell, I have leave still, so I may come just to arrange the parties!" I winced as the bar exploded in cheers of our fellow Custos and those we often guarded of the caravans. I do not remember much more of the night, save that the fight Tony and I had was one of who could out drink who, which explains the memory loss...I hope.

Gods, please don't let Nonia hear about this before I can explain it to her.

I awoke in a damp bedroll in the tent I had pitched outside of town two nights before. The moisture was not rain or a flood, but the sweat of fear. I had hoped the nights of dreams of futures fraught with dangers where over. They were not. The nights dreams had been dark, so ominous I wanted to forget them, but could not.

This was not the first time I had been visited by the dark goddesses who deliver the Fates and Omens. The Parcae, we call them. Furies is what some call them. I tend to curse them as evil bitches who exist solely to ruin my sleep. When these dreams came to me, normally I would seek some priest to tell them to. But we had no member of the temples here in this place at the moment, all being out on rounds to the smaller communities before the fall turned to the season of dust storms.

I gathered myself as best I could and dressed simply, donning the leather pants and wool tunic for one last time. Specula, my saber, I wore in a backsheath today, being in town and not needing to ride anywhere. I donned several other weapons with my clothes, but I will not speak of them. Not that they are unimportant, but someone not so friendly to me may read this someday, and damned if I will tell them where I hide the blade or other tool of death I may need to draw against them.

My mind was still upset over the dreams of the night before, as I exited the tent. And discovered I had not been alone out here on the edge of the desert the night before. There were five tents there now, surrounded by a troop of temple guards, the Triarium, the spearmen of the third rank. Elves of such skill at war that they were recruited by the priesthood to protect the temples of our folk, in all their scattered places. Soldiers of the gods, who protected the priests of the lands they served in. That they had camped near me was not something I was comfortable with, having denied the callings of the gods twice already.

One of them was taller and older than the others. Very old, yet still very vigorous, even for our folk. I knew him, most folks knew of him, but I had met him before. Didius Lorcius. The leader of the Triarium. He smiled and waved at me, approaching carefully as mornings were the time of sunning serpents and scorpions in this place. One warming before sleeping the other warming to hunt the day.

"Ave. Billenius, is it not?" His voice was still firm, no crack of age in it. His hair was white as snow, and unlike most of our kind, he actually had some whiskers on his chin.

"Ave, Triari Didius. Yes, and I remember you well, old warrior." My voice was rough in comparison, not with age or weakness, just the effects of the hangover.

"Yes, and I you and your words to the priests. But last night I had my sleep interrupted by something that tells me the gods again call you to their service. You cannot deny the gods forever, young man. Sooner or later they get what they want. Better you accept their calling, for I have seen those the drag to their service, and the prices they had to pay." It was not a sermon, despite the wording. I could tell by his face and eyes, it was a plea. He had tears in those deep grey eyes.

"Just drinking dreams, last night of service drink off..."

His laugh cut me off. "Oh, those are great nights indeed. The dreams of the vine are indeed to be feared." Then a chill entered his voice. "But young Varus, know this. What I heard last night were the dreams brought by the Parcae. You cannot deny those dreams or what they mean for you forever, Varus. Sooner or later, those goddesses will pull you into their web of weavings."

I laughed, not at his words or sincerity, but the image he had created in my mind of the spiders weaving the Fates for the Parcae to deliver. "I am sure the spiders will have me some day, Didius. But until they capture me, I will stay my own man, and flit about like the flies and bees, tasting of this earth."

I waved to him as I walked off. "But the dreams of last night are sending me west, where I want to go anyhow, Triari, so for now, I must officially tender my resignation from the Custos and gain th freedom to head to the setting sun, and the smoke and fires that filled those dreams."

Behind me I heard the great old warrior hiss in surprise. For two reasons, my doni of foresight is well known among my folk, and so too is the word that I rarely share any of what I see, to prevent others from coming to hate me. I crossed the ashes of many ages of volcanic rains of the gritty materials that covered the desert to the west, and even this distant land with their pall.

It is amazing how courage at the bar evaporates by daylight's blazing heat. Especially under the desert sun of summer. I straightened my tunic before entering the offices of the Custos detachment, trying to find that resolve of the night before. The only thing keeping me going right now was the thought of being there when Nonia finished her time in the western desert detachment.

Inside I could hear the screaming that had come to mark the tenure of Urbania. Who she was tearing into did not matter anymore. It merely was the final log on the pyre of my career here. This is not how you treat folks who lay their lives on the line for others. Maybe the new ones, still learning, but to scream about the state of the uniform of a veteran, well that was intolerable. Henrius had been in the service for longer than she had lived, and was only a line worker by choice. Some of us had long ago called him the real leader of the troop here.

I walked in, and decided to let my last act be one of courage and respect. "Only a fool criticizes one with more experience than she has. And more brains, I might add, Optio Hantia." Where this courage was coming from still eludes me. Years later I thought it over, when asked, and still cannot answer with more than I have a low tolerance for fools.

"Yes, but that experienced rider was drunk when he reported for duty, and now I have no one to bear the messages to the west." Urbania's voice is not one made to soothe a soul. In fact one could say her voice is the grit used in sanding the wood used in furniture, or more appropriately, marble table tops.
Fortuna was smiling upon me, I could do her a favor as I left the service. "I am headed west, where do the messages need to go?" The eyes of cold green met mine, and it did make me realize she may not turn out to be as big a fool as we thought. There was a deep intelligence behind those irises. One I had not thought of the night before when complaining about her.

"Pelori, the capital, Cisburni, you name it." She recognized me at last moment. "Ah, Varus Billenius. You are sure you will not stay on?"

"Sorry, I extended for five years here twice already. there is no reason to hold me for more than thirty years on a twenty year enlistment. You need to find someone else to replace me, and I did bring in six more members for you this spring. I have a life to get on with, and that is not here on the edge of nowhere." My voice was even, and I tried to keep it friendly. Earlier this week she had invoked the extreme measure of preventing discharges of several first term folk. By mentioning the previous extensions, I was reminding her that no one could be forced to serve more than half again their initial enlistment.

Her face showed her distaste, but she knew I would not only fight any extension, but had a connection to the Imperatrix through my family I could use to end the action if needed. "Very well. Which batch will you take?" I was surprised at her lack of a fight. She might survive this place after all.

"Pelori and any messages for the Knights of the Sands. I have to head up that way to visit home and get some things I have there." I took the two saddlebags offered, and stayed a moment longer. Looking around, I saw the real problem, she had brought all her old staff with her, folks from the islands, from the wet western coast, and other places where the problem was too much water, not too little.
"You might want to talk to Loricius. He is out on the edge of town, where I camp. He can explain the water thing to you." The start told me everything. She had just signed the papers on that spell thing.

She'd never read it.

"What water thing?" Her voice was sharp, but she did not look at me, but her staff. I began to wonder if they were hers, or rejects shuffled off with her. There was hope, if Loricius could set her straight.
I walked out of the yelling match that erupted moments later with a smile, looking up at the noon sun, then off the to distant west. Unlike my dreams, it was not filled with smoke, fire and death. It rang of hope and Nonia.

As I wandered around town that day, settling my debts, and gathering supplies, I had that awful feeling between my shoulder blades, the one I have learned to never ignore. It made bartering and trading difficult, as I tried to both catch sight of my stalker, and yet not let this person know I was aware of being watched. This much I can say, the merchants knew I was distracted, and took advantage of the situation somewhat. To say my purse and pouch of gems was lighter than it should have been was an understatement. I really needed to have a talk with this person, they had cost me at least three sapphires, and a dozen topazes, not to mention the garnets when I almost picked him or her out to the crowd.

It was at the stables, as I gathered in Turbator for a quick loosen up ride that I realized there was more than one watching me. As we rode out for the short ride after the normal argument over being saddled, I tagged one, a fellow member of my race. One from the islands to the west, by his clothing, which was not suited to the desert.

One bearing more weapons than needed when walking in a town. There was an arrogance in his stride, as he walked to the stables. I knew what was to come. A challenge, in the old, very formal style. I rode off slowly, letting my mount stretch muscles rarely used the last hebdoma. It was good for him, and let me think over how to deal with him. I had Specula with me, and that was all, not even a knife. I was not sure an enchanted blade would be accepted by him, in fact, I was willing to lay coins on that. His folk felt only pure unenchanted chablys was acceptable in a duel. But I would trust no blade brought by one from the islands.

I made one decision fast, and headed leisurely to the west of town, where there was a broad bench just feet above the river that would give us good footing for the fight to come. He took up a distant following pattern, so I waited until we were at least one mil from the buildings before letting my mount try his paces. Turbator sensed we were going to a fight, and seemed to have the same place in his limited mind. The race like pace he took up was beyond belief, and the cloud of dust we left behind was an ugly arrow to the west.

He slowed as we came to the spot we had both chosen somehow. He paced around the broad stretch of flood deposited silts and sands, stirring up the dust still, pawing the ground even before the other stallion arrived. I waited until he calmed a bit before dismounting. Once on the ground I stepped away quickly, to avoid catching a hoof, but for a change my six-legged friend seemed to be content with just nipping at my sleeve.

He knew, as well as I did, that we both needed to be fit for combat. Somehow, this beast from a distant place of grasses also sensed we were leaving the lands of sage and ash. I was still amazed at the doni that had given me the ability to make friends and understand beings others called beasts. I could sense their thoughts, and contrary to the claims of many, they did have them. Right now, Turbator was thinking of chasing off a stallion, to show who was dominant.

I could feel the rider and his determination as he came up to us, even with my back turned. My donum were flaring up again, and after so long of only having the sense of danger or occasional hints of things to come, it was disconcerting. Once the flamens had sought me, as the Triari had said, for those gifts from the gods, but I had denied them. Yet the gods can be patient, to a point. I began to wonder if there would be a day they would gather me into their fold, whether I willed it or not.
The sound of two feet landing heavily on the ground brought me out of the dreaming I had walked the edge of for that moment. Reality was intruding, and the gods and their plots would have to wait and see if I could walk away from this place to do their bidding.

"Quintas Billenius Varus, you have been marked for death by the Allegiance of the Blades. As a member in good standing, I have taken coin and weapon to slay you. But as you are of the blood of the ancient lineages, I grant you the honor of dancing with me in the old formulas." Somehow I knew he would have a voice others would call angelic, not knowing what he was inside.

With a simple turn, I drew Specula from her sheath, letting the light she was imbued with flare out for the moment. "There is no honor in taking coin to kill others of our kind. In fact, it was forbidden by the gods ages ago, in the earliest of days you claim to be here to represent, fool." My voice was low, and had that edge it too oft did in such times. But in the end, all that mattered was not the appearance or perceptions of others, but who stood for right and who committed wrongs.

"You and those of the plains left honor behind when you left the islands, servus. Now, be a good boy, and die like the dog you are." His blade came out, stained red with an iron based poison. The merest touch of that blade on me, even some of the stuff dropping on my skin would be deadly, I was sure.

"Poison? This is your honor?" My taunt struck a chord in his anima, one he seemed surprised to still have.

"I am an assassin, stultus, what did you expect of me? Dueling swords and seconds?" His blade still dipped to the ground, offering quarter.

I smiled and saluted him with my acinias. "No, you are all I thought would come for me. As is your second out there in the sage watching us. Signal him to back off, and stay out of this. His kind is not ours, and this is not about the money, is it?"

One thing I have learned over the years is that the eyes often speak even with the rest of a person are still as stone. Pupils constricted, then opened in the response of fear. He had not known he was followed, nor could he think who was out there, waiting for this fight to be over. And now he would not be able to stop thinking of that one.

I let my inner eye open for the slightest of moments, sensing the flows of life forces around the me. There was a smoldering pile of ashen color out there, with only hints of the fires of life in it. It was not the dying fires of the undead, nor was it the smolder of one of the living who is dead inside. It was one who tried to bend the stuff of shadows around himself, with a skill that was remarkable, but still nothing compared to artistry of my old friend Umbradinor's. This one was still learning the path of crafting shadows, young, unskilled, yet showing promise. I knew this one, I was sure.

In my musings, I was vulnerable, and the fool made his first attack. My saber is fast luckily, and with a flick of my arm, the first clash of chablys on his bronze blade. From this moment, all was the battle, none on other things. I laid my mind upon this foe, and watched everything he did, noting the slightest of clues, the tension of muscles I could see under his skin, the way he shifted his weight to a side, forward or back, all was important.

The dance began in earnest, as we began a slow circling series of feints, attacks, blocks and movements. With each move, one of us stepped closer to death, the other to life, and for the first few fingers of sand dropping from the upper to lower ends of the horus, neither of us was sure who was moving which direction. Then the moment came, he launched a series of attacks that were part of the standard saber dance, predictable to a point I blocked them without thinking of the blocks, but turned my eyes to the step he would take next or beyond.

In the saber dances of the islands, the aggressor always wins, but in reality, it is the person who realizes a fight is not a dance who wins. Specula touched him gently several times as I used her tip to test his mindset and skill, and found both lacking. How the assassins had allowed such a fool into their midst, I could not know, and probably never would. One thing was for sure, this fight was not one I had sought, nor desired.

Turbator had declared his own war, as we had danced, with the huffing and screams only the equines can make, be they horse, mule or onager. The other stallion was younger, and took the challenge eagerly. Hooves and teeth were clashing at the river side, as we danced, two battles of one single war. I tried not to let more than where their fight was at, it being far more mobile than ours, as it raged along the length of the bench. If that battle crashed into ours, all sorts of new problems would erupt.

My nameless foe, which was strange given his attitude to the traditional style of dueling, had yet to touch me once with his blade, but now wore the green badge of combat in seven separate spots now on his body. None were deep, nor did any slow him a bit, but I had the touches, and now we both knew he was not as skilled with the blade as I was. My acinias danced in and out of his defenses as lightning would in the clouds of a storm. This was not part of the enchantments cast upon that chablys. It was all training, determination to live, and way too much experience in real world fighting.

At last he managed to turn away from the formula of the island dance, and tried to lock blades between us, but years in the saddle and working in the fields beside those I protected had given me greater strength than his years of impractical forms had done for him by practice. With a simple push off, I ended the match, as the edge of his blade dug into his face. I gave him his spin at the end, like in the saber dance. Despite his sudden knowledge of being dead, he still tried to block it. Specula shattered his saber, and I winced as he at last drew blood with a sliver of bronze that broke the skin of my forearm.

Behind me, the younger onager fled at last, but Turbator stood his ground neighing loudly in triumph, not pursuing the vanquished. Which was good for a change. I felt the first throbs of the poison of iron in my arm, thinking I should bandage it, when a strong arm took my good one.

"Augur, you make it very difficult to protect you." Didius voice, not angry, but not happy.

Nor was I happy with what the treatment for the poison was. Leave it to say, it is not very palatable, nor were the after effects anything I would care to share. Also, I hate tourniquets with a passion, they make your fingers numb for days later.

Notice to those thinking I was just being a lazy bum the last few years.

The next two weeks, you get both barrels, nearly every project, as far as they got, though truncated in two cases, and some of the gems I was sitting on.

You don't write this much, to sell, waiting to build name recognition before tossing them out, or cut-off at the knees by a lack of support in the back up plan for surviving, without some serious, hard work. Research and effort both went into each work, so bite me.

But, at the same time, a Tip of the Hat to the few friends, on-line and real world, and one family member who stood beside me in the writings.

Call me late-for-dinner, but never call me lazy. My only laziness is in refusing to drive on, after all, it is hard to write over the pains starvation cause you to suffer. Let alone, the worries about the computer being stolen while you sleep, be it in the shelter or on the streets. Damned thing is too fragile now to suffer over another winter out in the cold, or I'd have held out on these, finished them and sent them off.

Why I write - A commentary on Life, Myself, and Society

This blog, the tales and poems on it, and the few times I rant and rave about things, all have purpose.

They get me through the travails Life tossed my way, the hurdles the Fates, evil wenches they are (sorry, ladies, but those three gals, no matter which Incarnations you chose, are wenches, serving up dishes oft better left untasted), lay on my path, and the many frustrations stemming from the seemingly (to me, and others in similar situations) excessive application of Murphy's Law to events affecting me.

I write to keep my sanity, to vent frustrations and hopes both. I write to show I won't give up, that I will find some way out, no matter how much rubble, trash, and other offal get thrown into this pit I'm in, cause I'm just too ornery to totally quit. Step back to regroup, maybe. Stand aside while assessing a situation, definitely time to write, just to see if what rolls out has an answer or that analysis gives you a better understanding of the wasteland I stand in.

And this is a wasteland. A place where Society has tossed aside members to, ignoring their concerns and the reasons they fell from grace. I see the dirty underbelly of our Nation, and it ain't pretty. In fact, the sight is mighty revolting. Not just the rampant crimes, garbed in clothes with blue and white collars both, but the foolish ideas, blind ambitions that drive us into bad situations, and worst, the pure, uncaring hearts of stone that so many have, while spouting words of Faiths that condemn that very attitude.

We can be better. All of us. You, me, our kith and kin, our neighbors, even our enemies and allies. But we fail to see where we can improve.

For me, it's all about the attitude. After over 8000 (yeah, let me emphasize that a bit, that is EIGHT THOUSAND, not a typo) job applications over the last four years, more than required to obtain the benefits many survive such a stretch for a period via Unemployment checks, I'm still trying. Yes, I often tell folks now I have a bet with myself that writing will start giving me money to live on before a job materializes, but that is just my pessimism talking, not optimism. That part of my attitude makes me keep tossing resumes to the winds, trying to find a steady job to live off of, instead of wandering away as I often threaten.

How does writing lift that optimism. Simple. Each view of this blog, and my others, tells me folks do care, might cut me enough slack to get a shot at rising back up, and best of all, it lets me take out frustrations, instead of on real folks, upon characters and words, to relieve the tensions between my ears and shoulders, that ache for some release. It also reminds me, each time I get a sale, a hit, or even just a comment, that I have skills never tried, ones just getting their first real shots as these fingers do their dance across the keys. A slim opportunity to use those skills to haul myself out.

So, don't laugh at the writers. At least they keep trying, plodding forward with determination and grit so many lack, who start something, or only talk up an idea, then let others do the work for them.

I'm here, I'm still trying, and will keep on writing, until the cold fingers of some destiny I have no clue about close on my throat, fingers, eyes, and mind, to rip me down as worm fodder.

So, lead, follow, or preferably, get out of my bloody way. If you don't, well, we writers have another form of revenge. Writing you into a tale, then claiming the resemblance is purely coincidental (that coincidence being you irked me just as I needed a character or event in a tale, and thus got immortalized in verse or prose). Or, better yet, to poke fun at you, and remind you that Satire is protected speech, and has a long, great history of being an agent of change.

So, tonight, when I write, don't laugh. After all, it might be something you'd enjoy, either reading yourself or watching others read, just for their reactions. And remember. I write to show I am not dead, not broken, just frazzled, but still slogging onward, to some goal I myself have no clue about, but it's out there. That, and to shut up the characters that my dreams and daydreams seem to keep spawning, having a fairly fertile imagination.

28August2014 - Dyfedd Rex

From the Warzone called the Streets.

I refuse to let folks have a pass on some things, these days.

Last week, Salt Lake City held a little "Homeless Solutions Conference", and where I usually sit at the library (where it was held) gave me a bit of a sideline seat, one that offered insight into issues of why these folks are so freaking clueless, so many times, about the real issues and how to seek answers.

I won't reiterate what I said on my rant blog, just advise folks to follow this link to it.

http://privislandkingdom.blogspot.com/2014/04/sweeping-things-under-rug-aint.html

Give me a few tries to make it work right, I am not an expert at linking, activism and all that crap, but....

When all it takes for Evil to triumph.... well, you know the rest of the quote, and I do view myself as a bad man with good intentions at least.. So, call me a Good Man, and realize, while I may not walk into such a meeting and unload both barrels, I do listen in, eavesdrop sinfully, if you must say it, and refuse to let somethings slide, when it's obvious you seek the "hide it under the carpet" approach, rather than seek a true resolution that might reduce the problem significantly.

Chalk it up to my allergies, if you must, but I must also make another quote, to warn folks I won't back down anymore, if pushed....

"No more running...I aim to misbehave." - Malcolm Reynolds, Captain of the Firefly class transport "Serenity" in the film of the same name.

Suffering Sojourns of Users - a Poem of the Streets

The addicts are restless, today.
Why, one never can tell,
with the mood swings suffered
from their drugs of choice.
They are either dancing high,
or deeply immersed in paranoia
seeking new places to use
as doors begin closing hard
against their visits by day.

Two were recently behind me
here in the Main Library,
one so tightly wound up
he could not sit still
if his life depended upon it,
while other hunkered over "fixings",
claiming to clean his backpack
but complaining about the "tar"
as he fidgeted in chair.

Others roam around the area,
raging over things as small
as one not loaning lighter
to one seeking his high,
or just mumbling while waiting,
and some get too bold
panhandling only their fellow homeless
for smokes or spare change,
too lazy to "fly" themselves.

They keep trying to wiggle
into conversations and safety packs,
awaiting their chances to poach
a conversation into some rant
about how the cops persecute
them over their bad habits.
The worst are there "shopping",
looking over your gear constantly
for something to quickly steal.

Not sure if I'll survive
with my sanity partially intact
if they keep milling around
seeking to draw me in
to embrace their strange culture
that I find so repulsive
giving me a small insight
as to how others view
my tobacco pipe from afar.

Wish there was a place
where you never need worry
about who ghosts around you,
using others for some concealment
as they do "Their Thing"
in such place often frequented
by kids seeking some joy
amid the books and media
almost as if they're recruiting.

That drive to be high,
is something I don't get.
At least not that way.
I settle for my coffee,
an occasional smoke break taken
when eyes I trust somewhat
can watch my two bags,
which is more, by far,
than these users carry around.

Most spread out about Three,
heading off to buy again,
perhaps cadge a few coins
to fund their strange hazes,
moving with no clean clothes
not caring about their appearance
as pants sag too low
and they pull shirts high,
almost off, just to scratch.

The short respite now here,
I lay this question out.
Where is this Drug War?
The little attempts I see
oft prove merely fool's gold.
During most busts around here
dozens more deals are made
within feet of the cops
busting the few they catch.

But, I cannot stand judge
over those I barely understand,
but only take some precautions
against sudden violence boiling over
or theft of my stuff
as they drift about today
without a discernible time table
for their ebbs and flows,
just sudden, annoying, bothersome sojourns.
5Feruary2014 - Dyfedd Rex, and yes, I'm suffering allergic "itch" issues after the latest. Mild, but annoying and making me cranky.

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....

Walking Into the Fray Once More - A poem of job searching while homeless

Blanketed in white snow,
veiled in white to brown smog
the valley hides today
from my wandering eyes, torn away
from the job search
just starting back up once more
over my better judgement.

Wrapped in dark shadows
made of fear and some sadness
I try once more
to find a way back in
to a cold society
that only seems to value money,
over heart and pride.

This is how today
plays out in my strange life
as the cold pools
in the deep inter-mountain valleys nightly
leaving the place chilled
until the sun rises above sawtooths
of central Wasatch Front.

Yeah, I said it.
I'm trying once more to find
a job to lift
this tired old body of mine
off these cold streets
and back into someplace to call
a home for myself.

Not thrilled about it.
This will take tons of time
wasted efforts will abound
as some just don't understand ever
that only True Way
to end the Homeless Problem is
to give them jobs.

But, try I will,
until the will at last fades,
sapped by colder hearts
that refuse to see their idiocy
at turning their backs
on those in such dire need
of a way out.

Sad, really, I say.
That you don't look in mirrors
and see your souls,
eaten by the worms crawling within,
that destroy by hatred
the one thing so many preach,
that thing called... Forgiveness.
Not to mention, Mercy.

16December2013 - A pensive and productive Dyfedd Rex.

Anger Has a Rumble - A poem of the streets, too late, sadly

Like thunder,
Anger hath a rumble
one heard
in quiet whispered conversations
around town,
on the prime corners,
the Library,
and elsewhere, that carry.

Linked above
is a sad story,
of dangers
that abound down there,
Hell's Block
as I've called it.
A man
stabbed in the head.

The media
say he is alive
but Rumor
says he wasn't then,
and speed
was not something used,
such calls
being often nothing ther.

Despite outcome,
there is that rumble,
Tempers flaring
about how it went.
It's Rumor,
but still, does not
every Rumor
build around some Truth?

Spice Monkey
or some mad tweaker,
betting goes,
on who it is.
Those working
alsoe move those hours
and that
stirs the Anger more.

Until Truth,
or passes as such
around there,
comes out, none know.
Save victim,
perp, and few others
too scared
to talk to Police.

We live
amid this mad violence
every day,
damned into such fate
by Society
that acts towards us
as if
we don't matter anymore.

I report
only what I hear,
and cannot
rely on the veracity
of whispers
but that Anger echoes
up streets
from Hell's Block now.

We'll survive,
at least some wil,
but now
you get an idea
why some
choose not to go
down there,
to avoid such things.

The campers
all speak of it.
The surfers
scramble for another couch
to avoid
what will surely come
and soon,
another crackdown, too late.

There's trouble
on the streets lately,
younger ones
who have nothing left
but Rage
that boils out suddenly,
without provocation
other than slights perceived.

And all
walk a bir uneasy
for now
we know for sure
that those
who rage about town
may really
be ready to fight...
... and kill.

3October2013 - Dyfedd Rex, who walks carefully tonight.
Due to this:
http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/56949564-78/amp-police-lake-salt.html.csp

Reflections on Things - A poem of today's whispers

Just had long conversation
with an outreach team member,
about the thngs we both see oft
among the homeless issues.
Funny the views being shown
from our different angles,
how they hear one thing put forth
and we see another in force.

And all this amid whispers
of a scandal rattling trees
still just ripples stirring pond
before the tsunami lands
drowning out the daily needs
of those who are desperate
for some assistance to leave
this horrid homeless lifestyle.

Rumors abound this last week,
and yet we see little movement
towards any meaningful acts
that might really address issues.
But who cares now anyway.
We are just homeless scum bums,
or so folks say as we pass
moving about the town's bleak streets.

One thing I see now, too late,
this ain't some easy problem
solved just with money tossed fast
into the winds so wastefully.
No, it will require deep thought
over the underlying things
that create this problem now
for Society to fix.

But where to start the actions?
Is it wise to race forward
with plans for internment camps?
Or start communes for our use,
without thought given to needs
like how to clean us all up?
Obviously, you folks ain't,
but you all may be Nazis.

I used that nasty N word
to get your attention a bit.
Look, here is the harsh truth folks.
That is never the answer.
It's time to look at problems
with an eye towards fixing things,
the right way, first time around
not some slapped together plan.

So, pull your heads out, you fools.
You help perpetuate this mess,
not by giving things freely
but failing to hold out hope.
Have you hired the homeless,
or one long-term unemployed?
Have you rented to those down
on luck and money of late?

Don't spout Christian platitudes
mixed with selfish attitudes.
For a change, walk the right path,
and do as your Saviour said.
Not saying asking us to rise
and make progress is wrong path,
but do it with some mercy,
realizing our status.

I won't claim we are angels,
and while some may be demons,
not all fit that bill either.
And, yes, some of you reached out
only to be burnt by us,
but remember we're human
and make mistakes, just like you,
and sometimes avoid them too.

Can you honestly look deep
into eyes in the mirror?
Will they pass on your misdeeds?
Or condemn you for failing?
More dimensions surround us
than just the plane of tough love.
Do you have what it will take
to walk in our shoes a mile?

Try it. I dare ya.

18September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Real Reasons You're Passed Over - A Satirical Poem of Job Hunting.

Just say it folks, really.
Tell me the honest truth.
I don't get the job
cause I lack that one qualification
of society's perceived beauty.

Let the words come out,
speak them aloud at last.
"Sorry, we wanted a candidate
whose legs look more sexy.
Just to brighten office morale."

Or admit your deepest sins,
"You don't have the look
of the romance novel model
we really have in mind
to fill this position with."

Fess up that nasty prejudice.
"No way we'd ever hire
a hippie looking stoner dude
even if you pass tests
made to screen you out!"

Admit the brutally harsh truth.
"We like looking down noses
as the homeless trudge by.
It makes us feel superior
despite our inferiority complex issues."

Yeah, I'm having a day
plagued by anger and depression.
But I have a skill
you cannot break, despite trying!
I can mock back here...
...and just call it art!

15May2013 - Dyfedd Rex (feeling better after venting nightmares).