from the trifectorate of pain
the dew point
tears
I'm sitting alone trying not
to forget
that will come certainly
the forgetting

seems all is forgotten
more than forgiven

sweated through the night
Pajamas were not worn
for about ten minutes the
entire weekend
first rain in months
and now it won't stop
pasta pasta and more pasta
and cigarettes
and movies
two WWII movies
Gung HO - the Makin Island raiders
and Go For Broke!
the Nisei buddaheads 442nd
Regiment

what
the heebie jeebie
strike
pig iron
bits of plastic stuck to your hand
can you say what it's about?
if not it's not poetry
in the New Yorker
there's poetry
In New York
there's more poetry
Central Park
in the snow
Alice
and the smoking mushroom
I heard at least
six different ways to say
"i got the blues"
near Bleeker St.

on the sonorous departure of future events
we the people
stand and crawl
no
we are blighted
no 
we run standing still
or going backward
no we are 
stepping away
stepping back
stepping down

standing our ground
why
give ground
it's mine



so we'll be hating on something
 someone for lack
of anything useful to think
for something but nothing
the departures are ourselves looking back

we the people
even those words
seem false  somehow
we are not a people
even when we are

there has never been a people
who know what's wrong
with you
and  me
I know what's wrong with you


who are you?



 we the people
we the cuisinart
need to eat
 are hungry


creating great bonfires
of words
burning books
we can't read
don't know exist 
our lives are dealt
fatal blows
because we
thought you were
wrong

it's hard to separate the
wheat from the chaff
when you're gluten free

great swirling mobs of
destruction of the freedoms
great swirling mobs of
the press
great swirling(not great barely swirling) mobs
of people who
don't give a fuck
cuz that is
yore perogative
and thank god
for that
great swirling mobs of not reporting
great swirling mobs of people protecting the people
lying to them
spying on them
great swirling mobs of people protecting
the right to make you know
you can be watched
we know who you know
we know what you said

newspaper crimes
the crime is reporting
the reporter
is the mob
 again pack of dogs

stay the execution
shoot the light out
feed the animals
feed the cat

the Hypernation period
had begun
the space bed boat was streaming through space
the sensors programmed to locate incoming obstacles
of a relative/exact trajectory
thus determinations/
higher level dangers required alert
minor dangers were dealt routinely;

Elimination of all smaller hazards
Deflection of larger, catastrophically fatal, potentialities.

I thought about it
last night

it's Saturday morning
for another twelve minutes

and now I can't remember

abundance of rain
the window's open
I smoke in bed
and read the fight
of a couple from
thirty years ago

I'm over that now
it's not important
why get mad?
take the loss and move on

saw the ferry
on red
brain dead

shot the hoops
with heroin

soaked right through
the tennis shoes

stopped to eat
no more this time

went to work
again today and tomorrow

saw the ferry
green as green can be

stopped to talk
saying nothing

straw man listens
straw man speaks

cans and cans
of corn
milk besotted
silos
of silkroad
semantics
purveying
the purloined
data

dazzling devotion
to
surveillance
cornucopia
the harvest abundant
such richness
like the opium smoker
great visions
in clouds
like reading minds
of anyone anywhere
ayahuasca
on line
and like the drug addict
best done in
secret

I laid my heart down
on a pile of embers
stoked the flame
and hoped
for fire
the wind blew
the ashes into
the reeds
I heard a duck quack
overhead seven geese
were headed south
I put my heart back where
it belonged:
on my sleeve
and my chest felt
lightened

Tecate Wars Part something

the broken window ledge
staring
out at the old dairy farm
the silo for corn
the silo for grain

The heat of the day
sweltering hot and humid

Time for Tecate

It's Tecate Time!


cans and cans and
cans

Breathing
   Biting
Beer

sinking
striking
TECATE

The Fronds
 of
faraway
fortune

these are the day!

at the
motorcycle
races


TECATE is the Time
of our lives!


aim straight
shoot fast
for
the beer
of a new
Nation
shall
be
    born
again
in Tecate

the role play

the sullen
the samurai
of
piss
beer

bring the house down
sing like James Brown

the Sinatra
of blue eyed
steel
the beer of
Life
the beer of
Death

 we are the
ones

we are the
drinker

let time take notice

Reno was
a bust
his orders were unclear
no one could tell him anything
his clearance was too high
they didn't trust him
he cyphered a workload
status request
and was given a code 796 -
Do Nothing
He wasn't exactly sure how to do nothing
so he drove out to Pyramid Lake
the lake was as he remembered it
hardly any trees
dry hills
he remembered
the year the enemy had,
due to the unique
design,
mis-identified the Black Rock festival
for a military installation
They got some fireworks that year
he drove back to Reno
found a quiet casino and
went back to playing blackjack

seventeen years
of war
and it still seemed
there was no end in sight
The battle of Mexicali
had been fierce
but yielded little resolve
the general
had advised
asking for,
as a tactic,
a cease fire
but the idea had been
been denied
He thought asking for cease fire would make them appear weak
and their enemy would think they needed time to restructure
when
the opposite was actually true
his forces were well armed
trained and at their highest
levels since the start of the war
The general was hoping to make the enemy
greedy and overextend themselves
then he could could cut them off
from their supply lines
divide them 
and put an end to this stupid tragedy
but it was as he had always
assumed
they didn't want this war to end
it solved too many problems

snidely
   the hell that forms
on a riverbed barren
the hands of the barrow maker
now shackled
 for war
has come

the junkie sits by his window
and dreams
of coca cola
 and the sound
of not moving

the foment has
unearthed;
lo behold this
land
our solicitation
in non cadence
and unmeasured
steps

our shoes are new
but our souls are dead

Arnold Ysipro  Tecate wars poet 1986-2020

Jack Redhorse had been working the
south line for seven days
and his mother kept calling him
she was having trouble
with her internet
"Mom, you're reconfirming the stereotype that old people
can't adapt to new technology."
"You're the one who drives an old Pontiac." She replied.
He smiled.
He bought the Pontiac years ago because he thought
it would be generic, anonymous. Now it stood out like a slightly rusty thumb.
Sometimes though, he thought, standing out was the best form of anonymity.

There had been abnormal hacktivity from a roamer and he was trying it track it.
He had identified several clones and had disabled them. It had been tricky because they were booby trapped. He knew they were the work of one person because the traps hadn't varied much. He had to remind himself not to get a false sense of security. These traps could kill you in nasty ways and he knew one way to gamble is establish a pattern of behavior and then use that pattern to deceive. Whoever was building these clones was no dummy. He would know the clones had been disabled and he could track Jacks trajectory.
He thought dude could just be waiting for him at the next one. No fancy booby traps this time, just a bullet from nowhere.
Looking like a drunk Navajo was in Jack's favor.