sprinkling and shower​

The rains have been falling for at least one hour, as cloudburst and downpour, as sprinkling and shower. We thank them for coming yet beg for reprieve and hope that thunderheads will soon take their leave so that in warm sunshine we once more can bask, can complete and perform our various tasks, that require us leaving our water-tight homes where we have been huddling, cooped up like gnomes. Each raindrop is precious to tree root and plant, without falling waters we know our life can't and will not be fertile or happy or long, wherefore we've composed this short rain-time song: Now fall all ye droplets, now make the land grow, now help us our hurried and rushing ways slow, we thank you for visiting these verdant shores, for washing our mopeds, for doing our chores, for keeping us closely together, indoors, for being the waters that keep us alive, upon you we surf and into you we dive, your life-giving bounty is always welcome but cease with your falling – your duty's now done.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

its origins shadowed

There tugs at my heartstrings a mystery, now, its origins shadowed in a milky shroud. I can't taste the outlines or clearly define this elusive puzzle that slips from the mind that slips through my tendrils whenever I try to fix grasp or harness it with my third eye. Therefore I have settled for giving it love, accepting what knowledge seeps down from Above, not being obsessive or making demands but sticking to feeling what stirs in my glands. Perhaps it's the Equinox that just occurred, that stirred up invisible spiritual worlds which cannot be known by mere mortals, you see, from which some gain insights and long-lasting glee. I'll keep meditating and emptying out worries and desires still flitting about, and stick to the Path of the wise ancient ones of whom I'm merely a poor misguided son.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

not much fanfare

There is not much fanfare on this here fair aisle for Xmas or pampered micromanaged childs. The kids here make do with what little there is, and don't seem to mind sharing with other kids. They pile onto scooters four or five at a go and wander through parking-lots with dogs in tow, now dropping their food onto the sandy ground, now making the best of each day's go-around. They do not stay cooped up just watching TV, instead they shriek giggle and shout out with glee at things such as older folk just wouldn't get, at a silly face or when rain makes them wet. They'll splash in a puddle or a rushing stream with no shoes on and trousers ripped at the seam, they'll laugh at a stranger and call him bulé, with fire and fireworks they are prone to play. Without regulation these youngsters do well unlike in America's restrictive hell of dire prohibitions and the foul jackboot of cops dressed in black always ready to shoot. So pack up the little ones, learn to let go of all of the worries you once used to know, and get onto this small but wonderful spot where life is best lived with whatever one's got.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

toward inner peace

There are endless pathways toward inner peace; I have taken many; with some I've been pleased; some they might take longer and have fewer fans, while others claim that one must pray to a man. This man and no other! its adherents say while claiming there's no alternate proper way to calm the dark spirit that is the ego, that tricks us and tells us there's much that we know. I follow a different, simpler path that helps me to ease want and calm need and wrath, that in its first stanza says it can't be named then repeats this warning again and again. It's tempting to say, My methods and no other! without leaving open to sisters and brothers the option of finding out Truth for themselves or daring to state that they'll sure go to hell if they do not line up and march to a tune that's all but extremist, with no wiggle-room. I am not here saying that mine is the best, that it must be followed above all the rest, merely that to judge is a worn-out old steed, that one ought lead others with not words but deeds.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on breaking oath

Cop chiefs of America now break their oath to preserve the nation's own Constitution for their standing armies in black fabric clothed destroy Liberty for all – everyone. This foul cheap aggression will not stand for long, for there are vast multitudes, great unarmed throngs, who take to the streets to protest what cops do when they break Amendments I VI VIII and II. Each swine made a pledge to uphold what is Right, to protect the innocent (not cause them fright), to hold themselves to pure and higher standards than worthless effluvia or mere rank turds. Cops kill more Ynki than Arab terrorists; they maim pregnant women teenagers and kids; they think themselves above the established laws; the System protects them, for it's truly flawed. To speak out is deadly to stand up the same, but still we do instead of lying ashamed on beds we all made up when Saudis – those cowards – did fly U.S. airplanes into the Twin Towers. Just after those harrowing terror events did the common citizen quickly relent and give up Protections long granted to him that the Founding Persons did fight for, and win. So take up a banner and march in the streets and record your actions in blogposts and tweets to prove to the generations yet to come that we at least tried to undo damage done.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on good living

The waves are increasing in force height and size – indeed they are growing right before our eyes. We'll go in a minute and wax up our boards while singing a few of our favorite chords while humming the bars of a popular tune then head out for surfing in the afternoon. Until then sip coffee and light up a smoke and tell funny stories and tall tales and jokes, ah this is the good life that we're living here twelve months out of every calendar year.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

a surfing paean

It's not just for any old wavelength we'll settle; we seek out the big ones that punish our mettle that drag us and tumble us into the deep with harsh pulling suction and swift faces steep. Between them we float bobble swim through the sea to wherever our chances greatest may be to snatch fleeting glory from a swollen peak – our serious business is not for the meek. There's crab sea-lice jellie trash urchin and shark, there's thunderstorm board-rash log impending dark, there's lobster-net newbie and lightning-strike too, there's shattered plank sunburn and discarded shoe. And still we will go out and enter the churn because deep within us a passion does burn for danger excitement and warm muggy climes; we dream of the perfect wave all waking times.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

poised to escape

There's one thing I'm proud of, it's not joke nor jape – I am always ready and poised to escape. My things can be packed up in an hour flat, my wallet is stuffed with cash, brimming and fat, my ties to surroundings I can as soon shed as a snake that twists out of skins dry and dead. I can walk ten miles or jog without lag while carrying both of my traveling bags, and leap over rivers and speak many tongues, and mingle with peoples old foreign and young. I'll sleep under bridges or on the bare ground, I'm friends with most beasts ant owl kitten and hound, I know to stay hydrated when things get hot or layer on extra clothes when they are not. These things I have learned from a life spent afoot, spent walking the alleys, feet covered in soot, and smudged up and dirty and bleeding and cut, from clambering out of innumerable ruts. Some say I'm not grounded, that I am aloof; I answer with jolly-good oh-yeah forsooth, then pick up my hiking stick and my backpack and walk away from them without looking back. AKM – Alpha Kilo Michael – Always Keep Moving.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

insight and honing

Just half of a fortnight I've been here, back home; at times with some people but often alone. To spend all one's hours with others is neat but there's not a person Alone Time can beat, for gathering insight and honing the mind I find in the Stillness a magical time, when I can speak little and sit by myself, do yoga or inspect the things on a shelf. I have faced harsh critics who judged my lone ways, who said I should not waste away my short days by sitting in solitude with my door locked, nor seeking out others to run down the clock. Where this path will take me no person can tell, I have learned to love myself thorough and well, I have learned to accept my gifts and not dwell on things that contort my mind into a Hell.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

presence and words

Just once in a lifetime (or maybe it's twice, or if one is lucky it might happen thrice), one meets a fair person, who helps the heart lift, whose physical presence and words are a gift. Should such an occurrence be served on your plate then take not a breather nor dare hesitate, for time's of the essence, it is fleeting too, and none but you yourself can know what to do. Seek not foreign council nor ask for advice but let honest sweet tender clear words suffice, to confess your feelings and lay them all out lest the other person should think you a lout and tell you quite rudely to, “Be gone, get out.”

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in Mao's mausoleum

We approach the site where Our Benevolent and Wise Leader Chairman Mao lies sleeping, but it is closed, even though the sign says it should be open. By making the detour we also miss our chance to enter the Forbidden City; it has been sealed early to accommodate a Canadian delegation in town for the Asian Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC). Tired from having walked the compound's entire circumference we squeeze ourselves into a city bus for the trip back to her car, paying the cashier sitting in the one twentieth of a U.S. dollar. My companion warns me not to wander around the area at night due to trigger-happy soldiers who roam the streets keeping safe the Chinese equivalent of America's White House, which lies nearby. The next morning, she makes sure I dress warmly although my system is already accustomed to the cold and I tend to run hot, but I follow her instructions and put on a long-sleeved shirt before donning her wool-lined, leather men's jacket. The day before, she had informed me that on the night prior to my arrival Something Had Happened with her ex-ex-boyfriend, and that she is hence reluctant to continue the physical tryst we had started in Bali one month before. I wonder, briefly, if the jacket is his. Such is life. Due to traffic control regulations we cannot drive her car as its license plate number ends in one that is odd and this is an even day. Therefore, we walk then bus our way over to a Metro line that will take us to Tienanmen Square, direct. At least a hundred people are queued up to enter the system, some pushing but most dutifully putting their bags through the x-ray scanners and enduring the pat-downs and wandings. At the Square, we go through another security checkpoint, and again another to enter the mausoleum grounds, where my companion is escorted briskly out for having an actual camera in her bag. (My Chinese-made ASUS cellphone, with its built-in camera, passes muster.) Alone, I walk a serpentine path made by a high-tech, movable pedestrian corral that leads up to the building's front door, pausing only to buy a single white flower, which seems appropriate and only costs sixty cents. Plain-clothed security men wearing aviator sunglasses prowl the antechamber, which is overflowing with flowers, and I pause for a moment to admire the room's tasteful adornments and wood paneling, to my eye built during the late Seventies. Then it is into the inner chamber itself, where Our Benevolent and Wise Leader Chairman Mao (or, as some would later say, a wax likeness thereof) lies in state. A security man gestures to a pair of cushions to pad the knees when kneeling but I do not immediately understand and before I know it am being hurried along by other security men (and women) past Our Benevolent and Wise Leader Chairman Mao (or, as some would later say, a wax likeness thereof) and back out in sunshine and a clear blue sky, my duty completed and my heart at rest. Requiescat in pacem, pater.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

drag themselves down

Now back to the village of sadness I go, when I shall depart again no bodies know. The streets haven't changed much, the people still mope and drag themselves down dead-end, slippery slopes. I won't be here too long, a few days at most, then straight to the west, Californian coast I likely will venture, will fly, run, and bolt as if I'd been stung by electrical jolts. It isn't so bad here, some people will say, who're stuck in a rut and cannot see clearly just how deep depression and foolishness run when people forget that they're made up of suns and stars long-exploded, dust, air, nothingness, that they can take heaps of grief onto their chests or shrug off the weight of their past legacies and venture alone to shores far overseas.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

without conscious thought

Soon upon returning myself to the States for some reason I jeopardize, hesitate; when faced with the prospect of someone I like my pupils go wide and my heart-rate doth spike. Oh why does this happen? Oh what is the cause? Oh what is the reason that I clench my jaws and grind them together without conscious thought and hope that my awkwardness will be forgot? Is it due to all of the heartbreak and shame that I sometimes live through again and again, when I'm off my yoga and deep in the stress about girls and money – not more and not less? To cure it I must now remember to breathe, to stick to my yoga and love its reprieve, to let all the thoughts, fears, and doubts of days passed retreat from the forefront of my mind's broadcast. So be it, then, darlings, there's not much to say besides that I love you more and more each day and that I am sorry for all my misdeeds that increase when I drink and tangle with weeds.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Bali as quick

I leave on the morrow, I fly in a plane, I hope to be soon to this island again, returning to Bali as quick as I can with hope in my bosom and cash in my hand.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

down and pounding

The pain felt from drinking the night just before does grow as I age and each month it hurts more. The pleasure from slamming down and pounding beers has weakened and lessened much over the years, so that I am loathe to spend my time with drinking – I'd rather rise early with brains left for thinking. The sauce is so popular here and abroad that I find it curious, strange, weird, and odd that mankind can manage to still get things done although he keeps drinking in wind, hail, and sun. To make better choices is left unto me, to hydrate and test my PH using pee, to sleep when I'm tired and rise when I'm not, to prove that I'm free and no longer robot. With each waking second I make myself new, there's nothing in this life that I cannot do, except to bring more people back from the dead (I've done that to myself when whacked on the head).

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on secret spots

I cannot explain where they lie, break, or pack for I have been sworn to a secret compact. To get to them we took the regular ways once we to the Goddess had given fair praise, once we had awakened and strapped on our boards, once we'd made sure all our bikes pointed forwards. They'll not remain secret much longer, I fear, perhaps a few months or maybe just a year, until they'll be crowded with Russian beginners who don't read the rules and are thus surfing's sinners. The breaks are near cliff-sides, sometimes they're near reefs where creeping fish linger with long, spiny teeth, where poisonous starfish and their polyps float, where wee male seahorses their progeny tote. Now come with us on this here new adventure to witness the ocean's ceaseless overture, that's written in current, peak, swell, chop, and wave, that dictates how we think, dream, talk, and behave. I will not say more lest I spill all the beans and ruin what's left (if you know what I mean), and give up the very last Bali secret, a spot that tourism has not ruined yet.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

a fiendish self

Frameworks shatter subtly and silently, the rotten cores of old systems sloughing into the wake of Darkness as It lurches wildly about, clinging desperately to the shadows that for so long have been Its home; the light of conscious awareness blinds a fiendish self-repression born in sadness and carried on in addiction; a brightness burns finally in the deeps. A host of tongues mix within this budding consciousness, its contours expanding, its colors returning, the million facets of a billion firing nodes slowly puzzling out the shape and flavor that which has no shape, no taste, that which must forever remain without name and face and definition. Acceptance and harmony repopulate fields left charred by decades of abuse and discord; a weight is lifted from the soul.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

i love canggu

The shirt says 'I Love Canggu – Bali' on it, just that Love is a huge red heart half the size of my chest. With black and white striped boardshorts underneath it and a pair of white $1 thongs on my feet I look as much the tourist and feel as much the surfer as I have looked or felt for most of my life. I receive a warm welcome from my local friend and his family; he and I sit in his compound and eat before everyone else and smoke cigarettes and drink local beers and he tells me about which of his relatives live with him and which live elsewhere, at his farm near the Bratan volcano or other villages by the sea. His older son and daughter come and go, friends and paramours stopping by and leaving again, just as suddenly. A beautiful young lady plays us a song on a Les Paul electric guitar while singing along and I find myself falling in love with her as soon as she starts playfully demanding in Indonesian that he and I leave the room.

After dinner I get two sarongs (or kamen, since they are for men) wrapped around me and tied at the waist and a three-cornered cloth (already folded and held in shape with a piece of internal wire) placed atop my head. The white button-down shirt they give me is too small for my chest so we leave it open at the front, my Love for Canggu – Bali visible to all. We go first to the family's own temple, where my friend's father performs our rights after we have purified ourselves with incense smoke and prayed three times with our hands together in front of our heads and different-colored flowers grasped between the tips of our longest fingers. The priest splashes holy water into the upheld palms of our right hands four times. I peek over at my friend's six-year-old daughter to see what I should be doing and she flashes me a gap-toothed smile, so I suck the water into my mouth just as she and her father are doing but am not sure what to do with the last splash and decide to follow their lead and rub it on my face and neck. The priest sprinkles a few grains of white rice into our palms and we use the remnants of holy water lingering there to stick them to the middle of our foreheads. My friend says to me that it is now OK to ask the gods for things and so I start saying my Thank Yous and asking that my friends and family be blessed with peace, prosperity, and Happiness. Overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, tears run down my cheeks, to gather in my beard. The girl looks over with a puzzled face as the tall bulé Westerner next to her cries, sitting in the dirt floor atop a Disney-themed floor mat with frayed edges. Without wiping the tears from my face I follow my friend and his daughter to a second temple, one for the wider family, where his uncle performs the rituals for us and we stuff more flowers behind our ears and stick more rice onto our foreheads.

The process is short, not lasting more than ten minutes, and before I know it we are walking through the darkened streets back to my friend's house, to drink more beers and smoke more smokes. He shares with me insider information about some cheap parcels of land near the river not far from his house that are sure to jump in value once the government paves the big road there with asphalt. After inquiring my friend agrees that it would be acceptable for me to make a donation at the larger family temple. With his daughter in hand he leads me back over to it and I feel terrible entering without my kamen on yet am greeted with warmth and smiles and press a folded up one-hundred-thousand rupiah note into a priest's hands. He bows his head to me with his hands together at the forehead and as I turn to take my leave he and his attendants gesture at me to take some fruit, which I have now just eaten. Oh, to be sure, I Love Canggu – Bali.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

its most mind

The panic that often did threaten to rise now hides from the inner and the outer eyes. I know taste and feel it, I sample and smell, so that its soft contours I know pretty well, so that instead of ruining my days I flat-out avoid its most mind-numbing haze. “Fear is the mind killer,” said people in Dune, then trained to control it from midnight to noon, when eating and sleeping when loving and not they would not inhabit its restricting slot. So shake off those fetters and throw off that cloak for life is best met with a smile and a joke, a laugh and a handshake, a kiss and a wink, it's not quite as bad as the worrywart thinks. To fear is a daily and a conscious choice so rob it of power and silence its voice; all life is eternal, the soul never dies, now stop feeling sorry and be done with lies and be done with petty and short-sighted goals that leave a most lasting and dastardly toll.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

rocks and cow

There were waves at both places we went today, one was Balangan but the other – can't say. It is a wee secret, its approach is rough, all rocks and cow patties and cacti and stuff, our mopeds they scraped at and chewed the coral but we were not bothered, not one bit at all. Then off to the popular surf spot we went, we'd brought our own boards (there was no need to rent), did paddle and scramble, did lunge, scratch, and swim, my guide never wavered (I stayed close to him). Now I will drink Bintang, a true sleepy beer, and talk to most any female who strays near, unless there are none then I'll go sleep alone without making a single complaining tone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

not dare finish

He drove through the darkness without hesitation while deep in his bowels much intoxication did rumble and tumble and fester and spread even after he had fallen into bed. Awakened by dreams he could not understand he lay there while touching himself with one hand but did not dare finish what he had started instead just rolled over and gently farted. Now sitting alone at his own kitchen table he worked up a lame and unconvincing fable to justify having been modest and shy and having gone home without saying goodbye. There's nothing can change things; he has no regret; he may be quite close but isn't all there yet; no man knows the whims of the vast Great Magnet.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

prayer and guns

No matter their flavor or doctrine or creed, religious extremists clearly feel the need to tell other people how to lead their lives, how to raise their children, how to dress their wives. This happens not only in the Fertile Crescent but also among American Protestants who claim that their nation is a Christian one then try to enforce it with prayer and guns. To us who've kept thinking it is hard to see the forces of ISIS, of Christianity, parading and boasting and spreading by might the teachings and habits that they see as Right. To live life in freedom by my chosen rules to me is worth more than a mountain of jewels; to live life in constant, perpetual fear that there maybe could be an extremist near just takes the wind out of my billowing sails and makes me weep buckets and flagons and pails. So stand up and fight for your right to choose to wear pretty dresses or to drink some booze, to worship in this house or nowhere at all, to stay down or get up right after a fall. This here call to action may not be too loud, it may not much rile up the masses and crowds, it is though a call for more pure anarchy and for less of religious insanity.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

out and survived

The swell we've been waiting for has now arrived, we're lucky to have ventured out and survived. There was so much water just moving around, the current was swift and mostly westward-bound, the whitewash it piled to nearly man-height, obscuring the sets and obstructing the sight. I dare say I will take the next few days off, stay far from the building peaks and plunging troughs, until lord Baruna has vented his rage and wrangled his monsters back into their cage.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

anything but clear

There's a nasty trick about propaganda – if believed it justifies all types of slander, cruelty and murder, torture, dread and fear of foes whose outlines are anything but clear. It's easy to shovel men into a box, trap women and children behind welded locks, to group people into a small pigeonhole, to say they're intruders, that they have no soul. Many nations do it still unto this day regardless of how much for peace they might pray, in public bemoaning the fate of their race, in private bulldozing with a headlong pace. There's no single answer to lasting problems, no cause for repeating those nasty pogroms that once plagued a people who now, to be sure, are almost as bad as the Nazis once were.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

with moonlight above

There are many things one must be conscious of when driving in Bali with moonlight above. The pavement is pitted and not always whole; one often encounters wide cracks and deep holes. There is also wildlife moving around, dogs darting or sprawled out right there on the ground, and bats by the hundreds that hang from their toes then race through the sky eating up mosquitoes. Animals cross or just chill out on roads – rats, geckos, and lizards; some cats; a few toads – these pale when compared to the tall mounds and heaps of dirt, rock, and soil that fill half the street. In order to avoid the heat and sunlight there are also workers who toil at night, who prop up a small branch, some leaves, or a twig to warn of a massive, car-swallowing dig. Far worse are the riders who drive without lights, or who use nothing but their high-beams, their brights, whose swift, iron horses can't see or be seen whereby it's a sure bet their hides will be clean. I have but a few, simple words of advice: drive slowly, use blinkers, and always look twice, have patience and strap a helmet to your dome lest you should be shipped in a box back to home.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

from fearfulness clean

I learned of a method in Twenty Thirteen that's keeping my spirit from fearfulness clean. Instead of just fleeing or running away from things that once used to plain mess up my day, I'm trying to meet them head-on, sans ado; I know now that, “The only way out is through.” I use this in all types of life situations, when pride, love, and honor beg for short vacations, when I get that feeling from outside to core that I cannot bear what's occurring much more. I'm slowly beginning to not turn away, to dig in my heels and find the strength to stay, to face down the patterns that once made me bolt, to adapt and conquer, to shape-shift, to molt. This is a long process, I'm still at the start, I feel in my loins though and know in my heart that there is no other, no alternate path, to conquering sadness and harnessing wrath. Some say it takes courage to face down one's fears, I find it far better than drowning in beers or numbing the senses with substance abuse or other such methods that some people use. Please lend me your patience and pardon my mess; I'll never be perfect, this much I confess; my aim is to lessen foul memory's toll and every so slowly to make myself whole.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on mighty Baruna

There is a short ritual that I perform; it's become a habit, something of a norm. I have now repeated it for many years through times that were happy and times that saw tears. When reaching a body of vast salt water I stop what I'm doing, say, “Hello, Father,” then walk to the sea just about far enough that one of my toes gets a taste of the stuff. I try to imagine I'm meeting my dad, and calm myself – feeling not happy or sad – then exchange of water by spitting mine out and taking a bit of sea into my mouth. I swallow it, tasting its salinity, then bow to the brutal but beautiful sea, say, “Thank you, Father,” and go strap on my board, then charge boldly in – always headlong, forward. It was not until I arrived in Bali that I understood to just which deity I'd been so long praying and thanking; soon a friend cued me it to majestic Baruna. He rules o'er the land of the aquatic forces, o'er turtles and surfers, seaweed and seahorses; his gaze never falters; he hears everything; will take a lost child under his sea-wing; will strike now with vengeance, now with perfect calm; does hold every seaman tightly in his palm. To thank great Baruna I find is a must, in him I place volumes and volumes of trust, please join in the habit written of right here and let go of torment and worry and fear.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

contours and longitudes

The contours and longitudes of this fine land I'm learning as well as the back of my hand. To do this I drive off and race through the night, with deep breathing exercise conquer my fright, then get lost and trust in my deepest instinct while clearing the dust from my eyes with a blink. It helps that Agung has a strong steady pull, that in her vast presence I feel subtly full of confidence, harmony, stillness, and joy though I may see nothing but rice, corn, and soy. With luck I'll be able to fully explore this place and her people, their customs and more, their laughter and smiles, their tendencies too, on Bali I find myself daily anew.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

just as good

Sometimes all that's needed a foul mood to snap is a solid, hour-long, afternoon nap. Myself I just took one, then did my yoga, and feel just as good as if on La Droga. Sleeping when my body was calling out for it (and staying away from that chemical shit) when coupled with breathing and sun salutations does foster a lasting and healthy sensation that buoys the spirit and brightens the mood far better than choosing to just sit and brood. Therefore close those peepers and enter repose, awaken and strike up a fine yoga pose, then fix a light supper and sit down to write, this short, simple sequence can cause much delight.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Baroque classical music

In order to write I've developed a trick – I listen to Baroque classical music. The strains of Beethoven and Bach and Mozart awaken my senses with a bold kick-start; they occupy portions and parts of my brain that yearn for distraction again and again. The music I listen to cannot have singing for otherwise I will for sure get to thinking and just try to figure out what's being said, which snuffs out my fires and makes them go dead. I first started doing this back in the day, on my Sony Walkman Beethoven would play, his final 9th Symphony was all I would hear through bright orange headphones attached to my ears. The cycle continues; it still serves me well; it's nearly surefire, like ringing a bell; it helps me keep writing in silence or crowds, when people around me are noisy and loud. To do it just download a classical tune, rejoice that you've found a most timeless of boons, take pencil and paper or use a laptop, with practice you surely will come out on top.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

just to sit

I yearn to be one with the flotsam and dust, to be in this manner is something I must. To unlearn my learning is another goal; to surf on the regular, get hella swoll. There lives deep within me way down in my loins, a treasure not measured in rupiah coins, it begs for attention most every day and sometimes can dictate my patterns and ways. To channel my powers and just to sit still, to master the urges and subdue the will, these are things that no one can give, none can steal, I'll make of my weaknesses a filling meal.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

ooo

It is a strange folly to sit here and write with a mind still clouded from drinking last night when I watched a handful of dwarfs dance and fight as they with much comedy improved their plight.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

extrima kasih, pak

When visiting fair, far-flung Indonesia remember your phrases – foremost though T'rima. It's followed by Kasih – these two mean Thank You; please say them quite often to friends old and new. In keeping with trends in most adventure sports there is though a dashing, fresh kind of retort that's used to give thanks to a younger, fun crowd – it's spoken not softly but boldly and loud. An Extrima Kasih just bursts with elation as well as the sincere and honest sensation of gratefulness toward a fine counterpart who keeps in the folds of his own beating heart the not-quite-so-subtle or too-modest dream or being the bossman of all that's extreme. Please still be respectful to those who are old – respect in this country is worth more than gold – but try out this hot phrase on dogs of the sea and say to a surfer: Extrima Kasih!

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on flipping switches

I learned how to turn off most yearning feelings when I was a pipsqueak, first spreading my wings. It happened soon after my family moved to Deutschland – Germany – where I felt behooved to throttle the misery building within so as to my new life abroad to begin. The friends and dear classmates that I'd left behind weighed massive and foremost upon my young mind, so much so I had to just learn to unfeel, with such strong emotions I couldn't then deal. Now I'm in my thirties, becoming a man, on my own two feet I can more and more stand, but still I can flip off what most others can't – compassion and longing and deep-seated want. Oh well, that's my station, it isn't so bad, at least I don't easily break or get mad, please wish me good fortune and much Happiness as I navigate this here flesh-and-bone mess.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

chaotic and fair

I'm back from an island, Gili Trawangan, there I found adventure and new friends and fun. It took but an hour by a mountain bike around its circumference to pedal and hike, friendly were the people that I met out there on that tiny island chaotic but fair. Now off to old Singapore I must be going for I've some fine people my face to be showing. Sleep well then my hearties and keep your heads high, your hearts still and empty, and all your wounds dry.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

there and ponder

By speaking about great immutable Truths one shepherds them into all-too-skinny booths, imprisoning them with inadequate words, transmuting what's gold into fresh, steamy turds. Therefore I'll remember next time I dare speak to stop up my pucker and shore up what's weak, to keep to myself many things I have learned, to cherish such beauty as sacrifice earned. This task is not easy, for others expect to sit there and ponder, comment, and correct, to say how I should have done this or done that while I keep on spewing until I go flat. Silence it is golden, worth more than much else, it's greater than petty, material wealth, a pillar of strength in a house built of sticks, I'll now shut my yapper before I fall sick.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

life-giving sod

Upon this here island – the one of the Gods – is much rich, volcanic, and life-giving sod. Sent down from the peaks of Agung and Batur it nurtures a people both mighty and pure. Through smart cultivation they grow rice in it, manured with great heaps of holy cow shit, they coax from it mountains of fruits and veggies that mass on green bushes and bunch up in trees. We eat of this bounty most every day, so long as deities still grant us our stay, until life's inevitable strikes us down and turns us right back into life-giving ground. So eat up, my hearties, do not miss a grain, lest all of that labor should have been in vain, but finish each morsel that lands on your plate for she is a fickle and tricky one (Fate).

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

master these bones

We each have the option of doing what's Right, of choosing the pathways that lead into Light, of seeking and speaking and searching for Truth, and learning from Wisdom that lives in a tooth. It should not in any way be a surprise that the self-same orifice from which spew lies can also come loving and welcoming tones, for we as mere babies first master these bones. Our jaws are the wellspring of much human strength, we use them through all of our short lifetimes' length, we eat, talk, and kiss with them, spit and chew too, convinced that there's nothing that they cannot do. Next time though that we turn to challenging tasks and meet them with our teeth quite mightily clasped, we hope to remember to stop and relax, imagining our jaws were but made of wax. In this way we combat the faulty illusion that fearfulness is an unwanted intrusion and not something that we can choose to discard, avoid, and say No to, like sugar or lard. So take now a moment to open the jaw, to stretch out and loosen that animal maw, delight in the pleasure of this simple move with which one can alter the mind from it's groove.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on friendly manis

Manis meows at my door, hoping I will pet her more. Even though it's early morning she arrives with little warning, sneaking out from neighbor's gate with hope that I her needs will sate. All she wants is tender scratches which she takes in fleeting snatches as I move around my place, washing torso, feet, and face. Then she jumps onto the table, old she is but more than able to alight and disappear, purring at me as she nears. Off she goes to check the rooms where she will perch and lick and groom and clean herself most anywhere – in the kitchen, on the stairs. I do miss her, when she's gone, maybe I should coo and fawn and give her more love when I'm able and she's lying on my table. Who can know the ways of cat, why they come or go, at that, praise the goddess of the feline for her presence makes our hearts shine.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

whence others flock

A new set is coming straight into our teeth, we're ready and waiting with our boards unsheathed. The riptide is dragging us all toward the rocks, where one person ventures the others soon flock. The setting sun dazzles and shines in our eyes while not far above us a white drone now flies. I give it the finger as it passes by, a white mote bobbing against a clear blue sky, then turn on my axis to look at the waves, afloat in these majestic briny enclaves. The first peak we just watch, to study its shape, then off to the breaking point frantically scrape, our arms do the digging our legs merely rest while sticky wax irritates stomach and chest. The first guy he scrambles but is far too slow, then sits there the noobie disrupting our flow, whereupon we others venture farther out to improve our chances and display our clout. I'm in the position to ride this one in, with a few arm movements complete a half spin, then push up and plant my feet onto the deck, for obstacles I with an eagle-eye check, then turn at the bottom and back up the face, continuing onward at a dashing pace. Near two hundred meters the wave lets me ride as within my bosoms there wells up much pride, I dismount amidst a vast school of beginners, regardless of skill-set we all end up winners. Baruna is calling, ocean deity, he delights in fortitude and gaiety, so shine up your board-lines and come to the shore, adventure is waiting not far from your door.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

handful of chores

Now far from my native and beloved shores I've taken on merely a handful of chores. One is still the writing that you're reading here, that I have been doing for these many years, the others are surfing and making new friends, plus yoga and and drinking beer now and again. I'm learning the languages people speak here and facing a lot of my deep and old fears by going straight at them, taking them head-on, calmly celebrating the battles I've won. In truth I am feeling here Happy again, surrounded by Balinese women and men, whose honor is profound, whose traditions long, whose power is simmering, present, and strong, who fear neither plenty nor hard poverty, who all seem to welcome and smile at me. Therefore I will bend to my few chosen tasks, I'll let down most of my sheltering masks, and drink of the magical ambrosia that's everywhere here in fine Indonesia.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

old nasty habits

I gave it my all and now find myself drained, like some well-cut wood my libido's been planed. The old nasty habits learned lifetimes ago are once again messing with mine easy flow. I find myself handsome and soft on the eyes although deep within boils a cauldron of lies that robs me of pleasure and fills me with grief, in solitude smoking the tobacco leaf. The yoga is useful, it can calm the dread that fills me as soon as I rise from my bed. I must speak to someone who cares well enough to hear out my anger and sadness and stuff, who knows how to loosen the tangles that bind and harness Happiness, that keep me behind. A longer-term girlfriend would also good do, not someone I'm used to but someone brand new, who's willing to stand by me during this switch, who isn't a total or self-centered bitch. For now I'll keep surfing and honing my craft, and hanging with people who are quick to laugh, the swell it is calling, the future awaits, through all of these Balinese pintu, or gates.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

rivers of gold

To release the spirit from its mighty hold is worth more than mountains and rivers of gold. As soon as acceptance replaces foul yearning a flood of peacefulness then quenches the burning that's fueled by desire and need-to-control, two inner conditions both petty and droll. These weak mortal bodies play tricks on the brain, they make it go crazy when it could stay sane, demanding constantly to be held and fed, to sit on soft cushions and sleep in a bed. One surefire method to keep and hold sway is to practice yoga at least once a day, this helps you remember dragon number two that never stops chasing the first one in you. Put those hands together, raise them to your chest, so long as you're breathing your mind is at rest, then say without speaking the great Nameless Name that fuels the soul-fire with its endless flame.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

erheben und türmen

Die Wellen erheben und türmen sich dort, wir wollen sie einfangen – kommt mit uns fort. Wir werden die Bestien heute noch zähmen und aufpassen dass wir uns selber nicht lähmen bei unserer Mühe da draussen im Meer wo kaum Fische schwimmen (es stinkt ja nach Klär). Hier wimmelt es richtig an Krankheit und Fieber doch wäre mir nirgenswo anders es lieber mich diesen Herrausforderungen zu stellen, umzingelt von tausende magische Quellen. So kommt doch ihr Lieben, ihr werdet nicht jünger, Ersparnisse liegen nur da wie Kuhdünger, bringt mit Sonnenkreme sowie Sonnenhut, hier auf schönes Bali lebt es sich sehr gut.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

wanting to smoke

The pull of the kretek sits strong in my veins, it leaves me much wanting to smoke them again. This body I live in will die out some day, there's no other option and no other way, to enjoy my time on this planet I must, to lead a life devoid of sadness and fuss. Without access to my own tried-and-true method of keeping my body away from the death's head that smolders within each of these little sticks, I find myself doing what make me feel sick. How puny the resolve that lives in this flesh, that entered my chakras while still in the crèche, it is up to me though to keep doing right and not to give in to desire tonight.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

time to go

The fungal infections that ate at these feet are slowly conceding a timely defeat. It's been a few decades since there was relief from relentless itching and persistent grief. There too is a cockroach turned up on his back, he's under a constant, unending attack by hundreds of ants coming out of a hive, removing his insides while he's still alive. His death is a mystery – what is the cause? – did he eat that poison-soaked medical gauze? – or was it just the bastard's own time to go? – because he can't speak to me I'll never know. The girls at the market, I see every day, they know I can leave this place while they must stay, they giggle and laugh with me – flirting, I think – although they're not nearly old enough to drink. These kisses from Bali, my second time 'round, were give by insect and paved-over ground, I'll be sure to keep them from getting infected and hope that for Dengue I've not been selected. While surfing this morning I sure did have fun, was shredding for hours out under the sun, to paddle back out there made me feel fantastic, my joy is expanding and buoyant, elastic.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

just stand alone

He'd nearly forgotten how fine and world-class it felt like to bed down and sleep with a lass. His confidence buoyed by recent endeavors he saw himself once more as charming and clever at least to the point that he had enough stones to talk to the ladies or just stand alone. Compared to the fearfulness that used to plague him and cause him to feel like a shit-covered pagan his newfound ability held without fail as he talked and flirted with all sorts of tail. Such was the depth of his calm and transcendence that he didn't bother to finish his sentences but stood there while all the other guys talked or when things got boring he'd just turn and walk. Sometimes the basics are all a man needs to conquer his sadness, depression, and greed, to feel that he's once again truly worthwhile and not just some asshole who's wearing a smile. Among the things that man needs today: good food and fresh water and some hot bed-play to keep him from getting all messed up inside, to keep him from feeling his soul might have died. So open those columns and let people in, to fail to keep boning is a massive sin, forget all the bullshit that churchmen might preach, our deepest love-buttons we can't alone reach.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on domestic living

Bare feet pound the pave-stones outside of my door; I sit on a thin, purple mat on the floor. The walls they are tiled, the floor and steps too, with a bit of sweeping the place looks brand new. There are two cockroaches that live in the bath, they know only kindness and not my true wrath, I think they eat soap-scum and paper and gunk, by now they are used to my stenches and funk. The kitchen is small but has everything, from toaster to stove-top to kettles that sing, from ice-box to cupboards and all in-between, when dishes get soiled I make sure they're cleaned. There too is a house-cat who comes when she pleases who loves all my petting and passionate squeezes who purrs and meows when there's no one nearby who flees through the side door without a goodbye. It is somewhat lonesome, this much I admit, but no one disturbs me while I write or sit for hours and hours watching DVD, or enduring static-filled Indo TV. I sleep on the second floor, under a temple, at night it's so quiet it calms me much, mentally, unlike the traffic and roosters that used to disturb my slumber with ear-drums abused. From a rooftop platform I can see the sea, some rice fields, my village, and kites above me, with love in my bosoms I no longer plod, but rejoice to be on the Island of Gods.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on calling foul

Caught up in some nastiness that just won't pass, I stand here now hated, despised, like an ass. My pride got the best of me, I erred and slipped, I rocked at the gunwales and near swamped the ship, the error and fault of my most recent ways has haunted my dream-state and poisoned my days. With time things get better, at least that's my hope, I dare not to venture back down the foul slope, that got me in trouble not too long ago, where this train is heading I can't say I know. Oh well, more's the pity, I'll just watch and see, what new misadventures are waiting for me, an orphan and miscreant, scholar and fiend, solemn of countenance, hardy of spleen.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

just one thing

This mind is my own, no one else I can blame, for feelings of anger, elation, or shame, things never are constant or very stable, all I know is that I'm indomitable. Not hatred can rule me, not death and not vice, not pox and not sickness, not even head-lice, there's little to do now but sit silently, my rump in the dirt and by back to a tree, and watch as the seasons around me do tilt, and skyscrapers crumble – all things man has built. For this is my purpose, the one I now choose, there's little to gain and far less left to lose, but watching as shadows with each other blend, surrounded as needed by sibling and friend. So come now, ye hearties, once more to the breech, together our foes we've some manners to teach, for ours is the present, the future, and past, we've nothing to lose but a steady repast, we've so much to let go of, and to rescind, our time here is wasting so let us begin.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on stepping back

Next time before answering force with its like, I'll try to remember my blow-hole to spike, to hold my forked tongue without making a sound, to contain such thoughts as my psyche might hound. For words writ or spoken that fly from the cuff, are full of false logic and even worse stuff, they're useless and harmful, they cure not one thing, they bite and they injure, they hurt and they sting. Few are the benefits of open speaking, of letting the brain-stem commence with its leaking, of making a statement or speaking one's mind – far better it were to make noise from behind. I'll heed this sound warning and keep myself still, if not woe and loneliness my heart will fill, when I stop and realize it's all been for naught, that love and compassion I'd briefly forgot. The proof's in the pudding, that soils my nose, that gums up my laptop and sticks to my clothes, this paltry aggression I henceforth shall cease, reverting to lamb what had turned into beast.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

to understand how I think, watch this vid (NSFW!!)

Doug Stanhope - No Refunds

large and heavy

Waves are breaking, large and heavy, watch the surfers levitate, I've been sleeping, watching tele, please do let hatred abate. I am sorry to have said those things I once but thought alone, heavy is their psychic anger, desolate this vacant throne. Time is all we need to heal this, time and just a bit of will, that and a steadfast decision these our hearts with love to fill. Now the lessons learned from error dictate how we live today, everything will seek its level, find its balance, be OK.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

or feel not

We each have the power, to feel or feel not, this freedom is truly all that we have got. Some people are confused, they don't understand, they curse and malign now the Great Unseen Hand, that guides and confounds us through daytime and dark, that lurks in the baby's smile and the dog's bark. It is the decision, of each one of us, to fret or to worry, to make a great fuss, but also to laugh and to smile her way through all of the bullshit she might see today. It is a strange notion, this foul suffering, it is an obnoxious and dastardly thing, it happens to soldier and farmer and wife, it tramples on Happiness and snuffs out life. Seize responsibility, blame no one else, for you alone manage your own mental health, and no one but you can let bad feelings in, so just rest a moment before you begin to cast about seeking an outside culprit – that person does share the chair where you now sit.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

land of plenty

In six days of living in this land of plenty I've done more than back home I would have in twenty. This sure is a good start, an awesome beginning, when I'm on this island I feel like I'm winning. Compared to what's normal, way back in the States, this place is all temples and carved heaven's gates, the people are nice and the surf-breaks are many, the street food is tasty and cost fifty pennies. How long can I stay here, that I do not know, I'll shed useless worries and take each day slow, reward myself for this most daring of feats, with sunset surf sessions and delicious eats.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in foreign lands

I'm now in fair Bali, with boots on the ground, my home in a foreign land I have here found. New friendships they blossom, old ones re-awake, there's housing to manage and cops on the take. Horizons expanding, without and within, an old life is ending, a new one begins. Mosquitoes are everywhere, biting through skin – not where it is thick though but blood-fed and thin. The stars are aligning, and all seems just right, I'm learning to cherish praise, setback, and slight. The trick is to stay in the now and the here, to put from the mind what might happen next year, to fret not about what occurred in the past, to keep to the moment with daring and class. So onward, brave warriors, keep up the fight, until the unyielding should snuff out your light, whereupon the body then shuts down and dies, and into the aether your spirit soon flies. All hail to the Goddesses, who number ten, whose legends sustain us and shelter us when the hardships of human existence arrive, who love us if we are stone dead or alive.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in foreign lands

I'm now in fair Bali, with boots on the ground, my home in a foreign land I have here found. New friendships they blossom, old ones re-awake, there's housing to manage and cops on the take. Horizons expanding, without and within, an old life is ending, a new one begins. Mosquitoes are everywhere, biting through skin – not where it is thick though but blood-fed and thin. The stars are aligning, and all seems just right, I'm learning to cherish praise, setback, and slight. The trick is to stay in the now and the here, to put from the mind what might happen next year, to fret not about what occurred in the past, to keep to the moment with daring and class. So onward, brave warriors, keep up the fight, until the unyielding should snuff out your light, whereupon the body then shuts down and dies, and into the aether your spirit soon flies. All hail to the Goddesses, who number ten, whose legends sustain us and shelter us when the hardships of human existence arrive, who love us if we are stone dead or alive.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on burning sandals

This footwear's infected, it burns my dermis, I suffer its damaging, poisonous kiss. It's just on the right side, the left foot is fine, at one point I'd stepped on a shiny-leaved vine, or brushed up against a patch of poison oak, that promptly with oils my sandal did soak. I have tried to wash them, with liquid and bar, the next step I think will be clear vinegar, to cancel the compounds that ravage my skin, but if that too fails they'll go into the bin. It is just not worth it, to suffer and cope, to wash and to scrub them with vigor and soap, to try and eradicate chemical traces that lurk in the foam and hide under the laces. Last night I moved into a seedy hotel, these sandals they irritate and itch like hell, the dollars I spent renting a door that closes I could well have used to buy new shoes and clothes. That is in the past though, I have no regrets, I've learned not to hanker or worry or fret, therefore I will change out these horrible shoes, and cease with my endless and woebegone blues.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

dear fair Bali

I just booked a ticket, I did it last night, to pay for my upcoming long-distance flight, back to my dear Bali, that I'd left in May, in this small-town hellhole I'll no longer stay. This place dulls my feelings, it makes me feel glum, it leaves its inhabitants addled and dumb, it fosters their habits of boozing and sloth – there's poop on the doorsteps and pee in the broth. I acted on impulse, I should stay a bit, to finish my business and duties and shit, but I've held me captive here for long enough, denied myself loving and bought too much stuff. Therefore it's to Bali, to surf and compose, to craft some more cunning and dastardly prose, to meet a fine lady, perhaps settle down, to set up a new life on fine foreign ground. I'm braced for the fallout from my recent act, it's off to the airport with no looking back, please wish me a good time, please wish me the best, from you friend I'd expect not one smidgen less.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

millstone and crutch

The hard stuff is over, now all that remains, is for us to tally our winnings and gains, to keep track of loses and setbacks and such, to rid ourselves forthwith of millstone and crutch. I'm of the opinion that this standing burden, this heap of a place with it's shoddy foundation, has fostered within us discord, consternation, and tons of emotions like guilt and frustration. It is then with an heartfelt and honest persuasion that I do declare on this solemn occasion to be not the slightest bit worried or vexed, to accept with dignity what might comes next. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

by my lonesome

I've sat by my lonesome, for these past five years, awash in my sadnesses, angers, and fears. New tools though have helped me to lighten my burden, I use them to battle depression, for certain, but also to fill my soul with happiness, to keep my life from turning back into mess. I know now that very few things are my fault, that I must be kind to Me (not rub in salt), that I am worthwhile and rarely to blame, that I need not worry about wealth or fame. For all that is needed the Mother provides, though we Her wee children still stumble and cry, and dive headlong into some dangerous places, knowing full well that Her great saving graces will be there and help us and guide us along, when our hearts are heavy and we sign sad songs. Have done now with learning, abandon what's known, from maths to safe driving to using a phone, instead just sit quietly, making no sound (for me it's best when there's no one else around).

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on dwindling hurdles

The hurdles they dwindle from many to few – I'll keep this ball rolling; I know what to do. The goal it is simple: to write and to surf, on one of the prettiest islands on earth, to practice and flourish, enlighten and be, to flex all the aspects of who is now me. There are now but few things, that need to get done, with slowness but sureness I tackle each one, soon I shall return to that isle by the sea, my maiden, sweet paradise, sunny Bali.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on burning wood II

Violently flickering was our tall heap, a jumbled and a wooden thing, it swayed not much to left or right but burned throughout the misty night. I'd dragged it this way, dragged it that, with sweat I'd soaked my favorite hat, forthwith a proper place was found on wet and sodden valley ground, where soon was lit a burning fire, a long-awaited funeral pyre. In were tossed the bits and chunks of: cases, cabinets, and trunks; heirlooms, lumber, boards, and chairs; in too went many fears and cares and memories from days gone by – indeed the tongues of grasping flame refusing to be forced or tamed went tearing through the mighty heap like coyote mauling cornered sheep. Photographs of this event bear witness to and document some of the things that had occurred, image trumps the written word.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on BOTG

One of the best ways to visit, I've found, is fully self-powered, with Boots On The Ground. (The term is officially military, which debates and frets over putting BOTG, in places like Lybia, Mali, Taiwan, where costs are increasing and missions drag on.) To explore a city or province or state, leave at home your guidebook and put trust in Fate, for She'll lesson burden and worry and cost, so long as you do not mind getting real lost. To me this is one of the foundation stones, for conquering places like Bangkok or Rome: to blunder and stumble and get turned around yet all the while putting those boots on the ground. I know of no method more fine or complete, than combing the ramparts and alleys and streets, for seeing a region, its intrigues and flavors, for finding small treasures and meeting the neighbors. This past-time is vigorous, healthy, and free, it gets the blood flowing yet shelters the knees, it shows one the flowers and rivers and trees, please come now and join in our splendid BOTG.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on counting back

Sickness lingers, I take stock – by counting back on toes and fingers I surmise it's from Bangkok. Sitting now, behind my face, in sinuses that fill that place, is something my body don't want, something to leave me pale and gaunt and helplessly just lying there while nurses tend and doctors stare. I'll stop counting, take that route, see what the fuss is all about, with living now, here, this, today, and not flushing my time away, with chase or worry, debt or toil, I'll leave for a foreign soil where long my soul's been bound to be, oh I miss my fair Bali.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

surf and babes

There's two things with much in common, here upon this spinning earth – many are the parallels of hunting girls and chasing surf. First of all, the chase is endless, stretching to eternity, from our modern days of comfort to the depths of history. Both endeavors are demanding, harder than they look at first, sure to ruin stoutest body, sure to empty fullest purse. Sleep-deprived and always thirsting, stags and riders know their goals – catching gnarly, pitted barrels; conquering those willing foals. Some among us are equipped to tackle both with derring-do, others though they stumble often, then aloud of sorrows spew; it's a mix of luck and timing, skill and daring, patience deep, as the waves confound and fool them or they go alone to sleep. Keep in mind these simple lessons, they should help and much assist: Paddle not but choose to skip it, that big wave arriving first, number two it will be better and won't choke you in it's mist; when engaged with fine young ladies keep your wits about yourself, have a shave and take a shower, leave the liquor on the shelf, ask her questions, short and simple, speak not much of hate or wealth. Now possessed of these poor teachings you may find your fortune rise, be it in the cresting ocean or a pair of sparkling eyes.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

today in USA

Now back in the homeland, there's cops everywhere, they intimidate us and keep us all scared, they tail and they follow us, guilty or not, we shan't move too quickly or else we'd be shot. Wide bottoms abound here, as do wide ass cars, as do drive-thru windows and seedy beer bars, where poor people sit around drinking their tears, impressing their barstools and wasting their years. Aggression is common, infectious, and welcome, it drives up the heart rate – how much? lots, and then some – it seeps into all of the facets of life, it's born of malfeasance and envy and strife. This house it is filthy, infested, and base, it is a most lowly and unhappy place, to flee from its confines and borders I must, otherwise my soul shall continue to rust, and whither away in this shelter of doom, this hovel of seemingly unending gloom. I'll keep up my spirits with thoughts of Bali, with practicing yoga and hot cups of tea, with reading and writing and perchance a song, my darling I know I'll see you before long.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

today in BKK

Soaring towers all around, my feet are weary of the ground that punished them all morning long, the tuktuk drivers – how they thronged – enticing me to take a ride while just today the PM cried when high court rulings sent her sprawling, these mean streets may yet see brawling. I know not the creed or god of any pro-regime death squad that roams about this sweaty place, that waves its flags and yellow kerchief, here the mood is thick with mischief. Roadside stands serve the best food although the seating can be crude, broken stools and shaky tables but the cooks are quick and able, serving up thick beef-broth stew that dribbles down and stains my shoe. Bright possessions dot my room, my heart is clear of dross and gloom, for I now learn to love myself, which trumps dollar, yen, bhat – all wealth. A German maiden helped me hope, encouraged me back up the slope which I had slipped and skidded down, soon vagabond reclaims the crown that he'd abandoned long ago, with ruddiness his cheeks now glow. In Lombok she rejected me, her friendship now is all I see, but that is something I will cherish until such time as I shall perish, liberate of life's blood, face-down in cold and frozen mud. There is a blister on my toe, my pace it will not ever slow, for I shall wander, taking stock, of this great city, olde Bangkok. Maddening, her headlong pace, who shelters millions in her bosom, what a fierce but gentle race that sprawls from Bearing west to Chit Lom.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on leaving Kuta

I hold fast till the last day, refusing kids who beg and pray and badger me both day and night to buy a bracelet – brown, black, white? Then comes Mary, eight years young, whose pitch is crass, incessant, fun, who won't believe I'll buy one soon, whose mushrooms, “Take you to the moon”. I give her less than she asks for, I claim that I am very poor, I take her small and flimsy thing, she says “OK, better than nothing”. We leave fair Kuta before nine, our engines haul and buck and whine and drag us through the darkened hills, we take much care and do not spill. A storm has slicked our moon-lit path – great burst of light, a booming wrath – but now the night is calm and cool, a taxi driver hits his brights, can't seem to pass us on the right, we slow way down, give up the fight, I curse and yell that he's a fool. Great mounds of dirt cover the lanes, force us to slow way down again, as if from nowhere they appear, with naught to warn that they are near. Then I spy a red barrow whose owner causes me much fright, who interrupts our steady flow, out in the street – no warning light. We get waylaid by crafty men; they sneak us past the ticket pen; they bribe police and harbor boss; ours is not sting or pang or loss, for they defraud their government to feed their kids and pay the rent. No berth awaits us once aboard, no slightly bowing deck steward, we settle down right on the deck, avoiding many sticky flecks. Bali greets us pleasantly when something drops down from a tree and hits me square upon the head; I don't complain for I'm not dead. We make good time and maintain speed, for hurry there is never need, a road-side cop tells us to slow, I speak his tongue – he lets us go. I climb in through the side window, where only weeds and gravel grow, I have no keys for the front door, we settle down upon the floor, sleep for one hour, then awake, as violent screams the walls do shake. There's spitting blood, hurled accusations, this has been a strange vacation, full of laughs but violence too, oh fair Indo – I love you.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on highest hopes

Nearly home but barely there my hopes are highest in the morning, when the thoughts of yesteryear descend on me without fair warning. Swiftly they transport me back to times when I thought myself great, hide from me the brutal truth of what I have become of late. Such is life and such is longing, for the things that cannot be, stay the hand and still the sadness, born anew each day is me, there's no fun in self-destruction or in hanging from a tree. Quick to laugh and swift to punish, is the goddess of the mind, she but asks that I abandon all the things I've left behind – all the moments, dreams, and fancies; all the want and broken trust; all the greatness, heartbreak, beauty; gluttony and complex scheming; petty hatred, wanton lust. Raise the spirit, send it soaring, to the gates that never close, sing about it, paint a picture, craft a poem, write some prose – this one life is swiftly fleeting toward things that cannot be grasped, I must learn to be here – present – to let go and not to clasp. Holding on can deepen worry, strangle life, and breastfeed Fear, I prefer to keep the moment, focused just on what is near. Here now ends this solemn poem, writ for me and me alone, now I sit with heart unshielded, contemplating rock and stone, studying each moment's breaking, deep in blood and nail and bone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in Kuta Lombok

I went to town to look around and took in many things: I saw one cow – don't ask me how – and one bird with brown wings. It sang a song both loud and strong to flee its cage it sought, wreathed in a cloud of burning trash – sad things mankind has wrought. The ride this morn was swift and fleet we slept perhaps three winks, in captain's berth we sampled mirth, the ferry did not sink. Now through this cabin we explored while sleep into our brain-pans bored, we looked in cubby; cranny; nook; as wave and sea the vessel shook. There was the book by Chairman Mao – his lesson, guide, and rule – three fancy shirts, a dead cockroach, some bits of foam, a toilet brush, the AC vented cool. Then through the hills and sopping fields our caravan did wander, in search of places rich in surf from here to there and yonder. We quarter in a spartan room, the basics they are present, my company is quick to laugh – indeed she is quite pleasant. The waters glint with plastic junk, so much it can't be counted; now off to rest, to try this bed, with consciousness dismounted.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

land of Thai

Now I've reached the land of Thai, ask myself – You came here why? – walking down an endless street, wondering just who I'll meet. Pingpong shows and midget strippers, I just got a pair of slippers, so my feet won't roast alive when temperatures reach 35. Women grab me, I say – No, drop my arm and let me go – muscles strain and tug and flex, I refuse to pay for sex. Ladyboys and topless dancers, I call out but no one answers, heart and mind they flee from me, racing back to fair Bali. Now I trod this sweltered turf, wishing I were in some surf, paddling to clear the crests, giving it my very best. Here is madness, here is pain, massive struggle, little gain, I must simply keep in mind, the one that I left behind, hope that she'll embrace me yet, godheads laughed the day we met. Now to have my muscles pounded, so that I'll be calm and grounded, when it's time to test my stock, which is always in Bangkok.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on breaking leashes

Leashes break and hearts are mended, cultures mix, language gets blended. Tides they rise and fall in rhythm, twixt our friendship is a schism, yet we make a fancy feast, dehydration is a beast. Batur rises from the mist, I drive fast when I am pissed, she is silent, gets the gist, drop her off – she won't be missed. Waves are ridden, whitewash deep, drags me down to endless sleep, I shall miss these Bali days, can't begin to count the ways, cherish every minute here, where the breaks are fast and near.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on surfing days

There's insects all over, and some geckos too, the ocean heaves angrily, whitewashed and blue. We leave in a convoy, with me at the rear, we're loaded with surfboards and all of our gear. My moped it struggles, through dale and uphill, I ride like a madman, trying not to spill. My skin is a patchwork, of different hues, I search it for patterns and comb it for clues, abused by the sunshine and some parasite, it stings in the daytime and wakes me at night. Yegangga is pretty, but covered in trash, discarded by humans who hurry and dash, and litter their plastic goods everywhere, or burn it without so much as a single care. We paddle out swiftly, we catch a few waves, then later we'll explore some dark, sea-side caves, where mystery, magic, and old women sit, just waiting to sell us their trinkets and shit. Fair Bali is beautiful, cunning, and warm, we love her for sunshine and darkness and storm, for eddies and currents, for paddies and wood, her kisses are brutal but still we feel good.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on puppies' screaming

Nighttime comes and puppies whimper, right outside – feet from my head – I give them some milk and water, begging them to go to bed. Morning breaks and I'm exhausted, many trips have crushed my mood, taking care of tiny doggies, tending to a mewling brood. I wax up my surfboards well, making sure my foot will stick, then it's off to Pantai Berawa, scratching though an oil-slick. South of us is naught but water, then the snowy Antarctic, mine are waves that build and tumble, filthy water makes me sick. Bali magic all around me, dogs abound but where's their shit? floating on a three-finned long-board, I just wait and watch and sit. Oh the lovely island women, they take care and treat me well, up the coastline I will travel always searching for the swell.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on going nowhere

Our driver arrives exactly 4 hours late, at 10 pm, after the Spanish couple had flaked on us. We regretfully inform the man that we must cancel our trip, and pay him 500,000 rupiah for one day's car rental even though we never set foot in the car. We are greatly disappointed with the Spanish, who were the whole reason we agreed to go on the trip, as we could have split the cost between 6 people instead of just 4. Our driver says he will shower and change and then send us text message so he can lead us down to Kuta for make party. As soon as he leaves, we realize he had left the front gate open and allowed our host's new puppy – Kaya – to escape into the night. Exhausted from waiting hour after hour in the heat, we comb the neighborhood on foot and moped, calling the dog's name and searching rice paddy, ditch, unlit homestead, and trash-heap. After a solid hour, the German next door pokes his head over the wall and says, “Are you looking for a dog?” What joy, what joy, the prodigal pup has returned! We call the driver, tell him we go make party after all, and follow him to a lush compound down the street, where we quaff drinks and make friends with local surfers, Putu and Awi and others. At 1 am, our convoy of 3 bikes heads south-east, taking back alleys and flying between ancient city walls, our scooters low on petrol, running on fumes. In Espresso Club, I sing backup vocals on Paradise City by Guns & Roses, elbow-to-elbow with the Singaporean headman. For an hour, a wasted-drunk New Guinean aboriginal man with long dreadlocks rakes his fingernails across my sunburned back, grabbing and pinching Martin's forearms so hard they start to bleed, screaming in our ears in his native and incomprehensible tongue. Security tells him to calm down twice but does not kick him out, even though Martin has already sworn at him in Czech and very nearly knocked his block off. The aboriginal realizes how angry he is making us, and so for a while he tries to appease us with gifts proffered from a small black hand, cigarettes and crumpled 2000 rupiah notes, warm beers and handshakes, scraps of trash and an empty packet of rolling papers. We finish eight rounds of Jungle Juice and then head for the local surfer hangout, meet girls, talk and dance with them, fall in love, meet different girls, and deal with the ensuing jealous confusions. The lights come on in the dance club and I realize with horror that I have dropped my keys. I turn to the first broom-wielding employee and ask him if he found a set; he pulls them out of his pocket. The other workers start chanting “100,000! 100,000!”; my friends join in, and I hand over my last big note, which I will regret later when the Malaysian professional ballroom dancer with braces on her teeth tracks me down on the street but won't ride back to Changgu with me, as she feels I am too drunk to drive. For what it's worth, I am a millionaire in Bali.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

brace for travel

The snows start to fall as soon as I drive into Virginia. I am going to the airport to fly from D.C. to Doha to Singapore and finally to Denpasar, and it is nearly dark outside. As indicated by the mapping software I had used, the trip takes 5 hours. I drop off the rental car, sign paperwork indicating I did not shatter its rear bumper, and hop the shuttle; it has to turn around only once so I can drop off the car's key-fob, which I had left in my pocket. I arrive at the airport three hours before my flight, pass through security so quickly I barely register the inconvenience, and immediately go to my gate, just so I know where it is. Then, I begin the first of many circuits of the half-mile-long airport, watching the Sunday travelers as they hurry to board their flights. We embark on time, maybe a few minutes late, and I am overjoyed to find that the seat next to me is unoccupied. Seven hours later, at the crack of dawn, after having been de-iced and then heading straight back to the gate to try and wait out a raging snowstorm, the captain cancels the flight. We finish our meals and start leaving the plane, but the other passengers are not following the crew's instructions to de-board in an orderly way, by rows, so that when I exit I am at the very end of a queue that will take three more hours to clear. By the time I reach its front, I have circuited the airport a dozen times, only to be told that I did not have to wait in the line at all, as the same boarding pass will allow me to board the rescheduled flight. In an age of ubiquitous wifi and powerful computers, the Qatar Airways ground crew processes each affected traveler's queries and taxi vouchers in analog fashion, by hand. For the next twelve hours I alternately circuit the terminal, sleep at random gates, eat the healthiest fast food I can find, and with dull eyes watch hundreds of green-glad people (it is St. Patrick's Day) hurrying to their gates.

The flight to Doha finally takes off twenty-three hours behind schedule; exhausted from constantly walking, I awake nine hours into the twelve hour flight. In Qatar we go through security check again, and I spend my hours there over-watching a massive duty free area, making countless walking circuits, and eating halal food I pay for with a credit card. While riding the bus to our plane I let my tattoos show, hanging from the hand-holds and peering deliriously out into the night. I find myself being appraised by several young ladies, whose male companions eye me warily. Having sat in the wrong row I change seats and find myself next to an attractive, skinny British woman; her boyfriend is livid, staring straight ahead, on the verge of tears; he does not look directly at me until perhaps our last hour together, before which he tracks my every move out of the corners of his eyes; I could have taken a seat in one of the many empty rows, but I enjoy his torture, and so I stay. In roughly eleven hours we reach Singapore, go through security again, and enter a waiting area that has access to neither water nor restroom. The flight to Denpasar is uneventful, and when I arrive, my ATM card works, my ride is waiting, the rains have just stopped, and the sun is setting on a day that only Bali can deliver.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

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I retreat to warmer climes will update this when there is time

awake now adventure

Awake now, adventure – begin, up!, & start; the thought of it livens and quickens the heart. It's off to the islands, to surf and to chill, to walk through the paddies and climb in the hills, to eat with the locals and taste of their ken, to laugh with the women and smile with the men. To observe and sample, to watch is the goal, to sit with the people and drink of their souls, to dance in their eddies and eat what they eat, a light-year from snowbank and shovel and sleet. Now onward, adventurers, both far and near, say bye-bye to loved ones and pack up your gear, we're leaving at sundown for ports yet unknown, where heartbreak is mended and magic is sown.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on letting go

I used some core muscles, to push out a bun, tan nuggets that shot out as if from a gun. Four times I have mounted, and straddled the throne, three times with some reading, just two times alone, and ushered much effluence out of my hole, continuous ribbons down into the bowl. Some kids just got dropped off, some loaves got pinched out, with quite a few whimpers and some joyous shouts, the poop left my bottom in an urgent rush – I even performed a quick courtesy flush. There's meters yet in me, they've swelled me up good, were caused by the handfuls and servings of food, that I've been binge-eating since Friday at noon, to nothing but hunger have I been attuned. I've closed up the ice-box, and put down my tray, I'll shrink back my stomach and ponder the Way, and take up the habits that made me feel right – eat little, stay moving, sleep soundly at night.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on daddy's drinking

My daddy spoke loudly, and acted deranged, I thought he'd done rehab and promised to change. It started with brewsky and ended with shot, so often repeated I quickly forgot, that his bum addiction – not I – was to blame, instead I hung low my head, weeping with shame. I learned to be agile, to counter and spar, although just the slightest nudge pushed him too far, if I stood up quickly or spoke out of turn, I'd soon bear the brunt of a cruel savage burn. He could not forgive his own failure at sea, self-torment and -loathing did fill him with glee, he'd bury his feelings and push them deep down, then starting at sunup his sorrows he'd drown. The drinking did little, but hurt harm and foul, drive into his features a hard lasting scowl, although toward the end he made more laughs and hugs, buoyed by a girlfriend and anti-sad drugs. I sorely do miss him, the old aged P, who'd give his right arm just to spend time with me, who loved a young grandson, that bounced on his knee, whose mouth ever uttered a deep I Love Thee. All hail the ancestors, the ones who are gone, whose exploits we recount in story and song, who harry, cajole, serenade, and inspire, who stoke up and tender a vast holy fire. Goodbye now, dear father, whose ashes now rest, I'll double me efforts and give it my best. Aho.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

what the fuss

A thing was inside of me, but it's now out, and I'm not so sure what the fuss was about. It was a tooth fragment, that had been left in, then pushed to the surface right under the skin, by forces within me beyond my control, the same ones that tug at and shelter the soul. The doc was a good one, he made a small slit, through which but the root and his pliers could fit, with minimal tugging and not too much strain, he quelled my discomfort and lessened my pain. He pulled out the fragment, with a steady hand, then told me a bad joke – the best in the land – then vanished while my mouth got swollen and bled, then came back to help me get up from the bed. It's all out, he told me, with confidence vast, the proof of which lay in his completed task, Don't brush it too harshly or sip drinks too warm, and thanks for behaving in such model form. Thank you for your efforts, for fixing me right, I said to him with an obvious delight, and fled from the premises swift as I could, back home to my great roaring fires of wood.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on winter days

The driveway sits under a good foot of snow, with all of this whiteness there's nowhere to go. I've sent home the servants and locked up the Rolls, stoked me a fire and banked up its coals. To make it quite cozy for you me and dog, we'll burn through this pile of kindling and logs, together our spirits shall find their delight, while outside the winter winds howl up a fright. The muskets are loaded, the pantry is full, our feet are enveloped in socks made of wool, we've sackfuls of goodies and liters of gin, to us it's a blessing when we get snowed in.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

pounce & mock

A sickness is taking this country by storm, a banal and petty and worn-out old form, the habit of empty and vacuous speech, the tendency to merely drone on and preach. Worse though is when people make fun of words, with much condescension and fat verbal turds, as soon as another gets her thoughts mixed up, they lash at her honor and shit in her cup. These assholes they sit there and patiently wait, until a close confidant should hesitate, make use of poor idiom or hapless phrase, whereupon these assholes then hound her for days. While quick to add insult they rarely assist, preferring instead to ridicule and hiss, and laugh while their victim just sits there ashamed, her pride much deflated, her competence lamed. So next time one close to you makes a error, please smile politely and then wait for her to finish her sentence before you let fly, with verbiage hateful, abrasive, or sly, for she's not the one standing there like a dunce, her self-esteem battered and shoddy for months, the wounded one is he who has geared his days, toward mocking his fellows and their verbal ways.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on time left

There are just three weekends, until my reprieve, until I can pack up and get out and leave. Then I'm off to Bali, for surfing and sun, for making new friendships and having some fun, for finding how deeply my root-ball has grown, for life without worry or snowfall or phone. I shall be returning but for just a spell, to make sure my business is holding up well, then into the wild blue yonder I'll go, with songs in my heartstrings and volumes to show for all of my wanderings, travels, and deeds – point me to the action and I'll find the weeds.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on time off

I took a few days off, to stuff up my head, to hand out some dollars and sleep in a bed, I'm back now and things that I chose to ignore, are lying in piles and heaps on the floor. Aho.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on the super-sprint

The coldness has hampered, my bicycle's gears, in truth things are worse than I have seen in years. To counter this error, of worn-out old grease, of wires that freeze and dérailleurs that seize, I've sampled and tinkered and finally found, the configuration that gets me around. I call it the super-sprint, because it's fast, allowing me quickly to mount every pass, allowing me also to rush across town, both neighbors and strangers think that I'm a clown. To enter the super-sprint I with care place, the rear-most dérailleur three gears up from low, then adjust the forward gears to climb or race, and scamper and hurry through ice, wind, and snow. The back gears keep skipping, far less than before, at least now I'm not being thrown to the floor, or vexed by a jumping chain while oscar mike, while braving the season of snows on my bike, while riding through blizzard and lasting darkness, feet going like crazy with sweat on my chest. If you pass a bicyclist pedaling hard, then give her some breathing room – more than a yard – then wave to her briefly or give her a nod, for she is a champion chosen by god, to prove to us others that sacrifice counts, that each of us by any means should renounce, the slavery that automobiles demand, the titles and payments that slip from our hands.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

sunshine rainbow thunder

Without stress or strain, time waxes and wanes, in pieces and sometimes complete; a vast Nameless Power, makes drought and rain-shower, sunshine, rainbow, thunder, and sleet. The ride can get bumpy, it goes fast and slow, give in to the chaos and go with the flow, have done now with yearning and foul discontent, if it hasn't happened yet it wasn't meant. A net spans the cosmos, it lets nothing through, we are all ensnared it in – him, me, and you; for us there is nothing, but silence and smiles, we stare like the infant, our gaze goes for miles. The Form it is formless, the Image is null, its edges are rounded, its surface is dull, its boundaries shifting, expanding, and vast, its anchor within us we each find at last.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on icy mornings

Icy mornings, frigid nights, filled with bright and warming lights, these we cherish, these we seek, wish that they could last for weeks. Gone too quickly, and too soon, now the dishes, pots, and spoons, pile up high and must be cleaned, soon they'll sparkle, glisten, gleam, fetch my apron and the soap, sweep the rug and coil the rope. I'd be overjoyed to host, friends and lovelies, all or most, now and later, any time, I'll bring trees and you bring wine. Come as singles, groups, or pairs, take it slowly up the stairs, then sit down and stay a while, rest your bones and crack a smile. Make it cozy, grab a throw, let your cares and worries go, leave behind your troubled past, love each moment, make it last.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

send more snow

The powder was falling, through the last few nights, we shoveled our driveways and canceled our flights. Today is a fest-day, send down from above, to ridicule singles but celebrate love. Our coffers are empty, our hearts they do soar, so finsih your sweeping then mop up the floor.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on winter champions

Their eyes wide with wonder, their hearts set to boil, the best of us humans invade Russian soil. To Sochi they wander, to that sunny place, where they shall contend and break records and race. To heights they aspire, to summits they reach, surrounded by coaches and well-wishers each. The only true winners, are they who compete, who sacrifice childhood and friendship and love, who stand up and go forth and perform great feats, who lace up the footwear and helmet and glove. They're maniacs, winners, and champions all, we watch them white-knuckled, excited, enthralled, we cheer and clap for them as much as we can, they are our magnificent Olympians.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

fields often plowed

The plowshares are running, the seed gets put in, it's not up to humans to determine when, the efforts repeated in warm darkened rooms, should finally start bearing fruit in the wombs. The people are trying, they're giving their best, they're swallowing boosters and waiting for crests, they've squabbled and argued and shouted out blame, they've made up and tried it again and again. They stick to the standard, the one we all know: Quick to spit and raw of hide, cut the shit and come inside.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

discing on codorus lake, 8FEB2014

shalk of wame

Her outfit is shabby her coiffure is lame, by golly this might be her first shalk of wame. Come here to the window the view is just fine, her gait might be sloppy but she's making time. Rush hither my girlies and look at this whore, who foully dishonors our late father's door. Let's rush her and pull out her sex-knotted hair, we'll pounce when she reaches the harbor-side stair. Be quiet, you monster, and come back to play, it's not ours to punish that young girl today, the gods say we dare not to hinder her way. Return to the circle or I'll make you lame, you leave her alone on her grand shalk of wame.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on choosing names

Call it Pahá Sápa and not Mt. Rushmore, one's rooted in treason the other in lore. Lakota face challenges, they are kept poor, by agent, bartender, casino, and whore. The Black Hills lie battered and bruised and attacked, by well-heads and toxins and roughnecks who frack. Another example – to some it is new – is the reddish monolith called Uluru; its boundaries ruptured, its children turned out, by criminal, rapist, backstabber, and lout; its treasure-troves plundered, its forests torn down, where once were found healing herbs now grows a town. These places are magic, we must keep them so, their import and mystery constantly grow, their outlines and boundaries more maps must show, their wonder and majesty mankind should know. So next time a liar spins yarns without shame, repeat and remember these true ancient names. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on trashing seats

First the big one, then its mate, passed on through the iron gate and – poof – was merely litter. Now the broken, now the weak, the lame and worn-out, dusty thing, chucked, discarded, thrown away, its worth not real but token. Over railing, down it goes, through the trodden, spoiled snows, there to lie for two more weeks, the house is spacious, wide, and open. Dad he said to do this deed: Let us toss this worthless crap; solemnly we bid adieu, have a beer and take a nap.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on swearing well

Have done now with son-of-bitch, jesus, and fuck – a modern sage-scholar does not use such truck. Instead please use fiddlesticks, dog-gone, or snap, perhaps too dagnabit or pishtosh or crap. Avoid then such phrases as shitballs and cunt, instead prefer dingbat and wallop and runt, then strike from the vocabulary foul words, except for gadzooks humbug hobnob and turds. By not saying repulsive words constantly, one builds up a storehouse of honor and clout, which few but the best among us figure out, whose spirits are honest whose hearts are happy.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on a Wotansday

I gasp when I see her and frown when she goes, I dare not to tell her what all others know. Her age is an issue, she is my junior, I try hard around her to not be a bore. She laughs at my funnies, her eyes sparkling, her slightest attention a momentous thing. I made though a promise, to not chase her down, but rather to sow my oats in other ground. Her company quickens, and heats up my soup, when I'm not around her my spirits can droop. To me she's attractive, upbeat, and stable, forever however unattainable.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on silent sitting

I sit now in silence, and weather the storm, seek refuge from frostbite here where it is warm. My own house is shuttered, it pipes drained and dry, so long as these howling winds tear through the sky. They bite and abuse me, they nip at my skin, I wish they would lessen their incessant din. Storm-clouds ride upon them, before which I flee, aware of their furious, frigid fury. I do this for safety, not neighbors to vex, please go back home quickly dear polar vortex.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on varying climes

The climates they vary, from that coast to this, sometimes they are torture sometimes purest bliss. For reasons aplenty mad people make do, with sweltering summers and cold winters too. Just why they all do this we may never know – now stripped to their skivvies, now shoveling snow. There are other places where cold winds don't blow, where plants ​and herbs outdoors the year-round can grow. To yearn for far climates is a tender curse, to think of it daily and fix it in verse. As icicles lengthen and fingers grow cold, it is now or never – don't wait 'till you're old. It's not rocket science or too hard to do, in Cali your wildest dreams can come true. So book that plane ticket and speed to the West, come see why the masses still call it the best.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on building backlog

For years I have been writing and posting to this and my other blogs, scrutinizing readership numbers and trying to figure out how to get more people to read. Interpreting the data it seems that I am writing about things other than those the average Internet user is interested in; a shitty piece about something lame and inconsequential will be viewed nearly as many times as one about something interesting and fun. Things are as Strunk & White warned they would be – rather than bowing social pressure and writing what people want to read I write what I want to read, what I find worthwhile, building up a reservoir of material for future readers to tap into and exploring issues I enjoy personally. History is replete with examples of artists discovered not in the prime of creativity but in its nadir, as their stars are fizzling and talent is rusting out. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on mending pipe

In my rush to flee this town I forgot to shut off the house's well-pump and drain its pipes. There, then, I bobbed in the Pacific Ocean, paddling for and surfing waves, while back East copper pipes were splitting open from the inside and spewing their waters indiscriminately onto carpet and tile and substrate wood flooring. It was not in fact until I had added a week to my stay in Los Angeles that I asked a friend to enter my home and cut power to the machines I had mistakenly left on. Fortunately, the areas that flooded contained nothing irreplaceable, fragile, or perishable; the only items soaked through were some cloth bags full of paper goods for recycling and a sleeve of steel scrubbing brushes that I had been storing under the kitchen sink. With a few dozen turns of a friend's pipe cutting tool and $35 worth of compression fittings and polyurethane tubing I was able to mend the torn sections of pipe so thoroughly that I can now flush my toilet, take a shower, and hand-wash the dishes with nary a wayward drip, drop, or leak. Thanks for coming, vortex polar, please return back to your cap, cold aplenty we are used to just not your relentless snap.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on feeling-creep

While bicycling in Los Angeles during the past two weeks, my mind was clear, my heart filled with song. Within hours, however, of returning to small-town, rural Pennsylvania, I felt myself filling with anger, discontent, impatience, and other patterns of negative thought. I wonder what has caused my modes of thinking to shift so violently. Is it my body transitioning from surf and sun and cycling to overcast skies and frigid temperatures? Is something in the water fouling my mood? Or am I correct in attributing this negativity to frustrations and malicious thoughts about me experienced by other people that are somehow seeping telepathically into my awareness? I am already becoming comfortable with these sensations, even though I do not necessarily wish to. For my own sanity and happiness I must leave this place and return to a place where I am valued and respected and loved. Aho.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on cali days

I awake well after dawn huddled in a nest of blankets on a tile floor. After relieving myself I restart the stalled movie from the night before. Hearing my noises, Tallbreeno sleepily emerges from his room, staring at me with a mischievous glint in his eye, saying, “Shmoke a bowl?” We partake, don wetsuit, grab surfboard, and make for Bay Street. After an hour and a half of surfing and paddling around in the mushy beach-break (me in just a half suit) we leave the ocean, limbs frozen and stiff as clubs but spirits high. “Another run before I head back East,” I say. We make a light lunch; we indulge. Proud are our twin mounts, and fast. Betas they are, of the Retrospec cut, and on them we haul ourselves silently and swiftly across the phaltscape. In an hour we ride from Main Street – Santa Monica to Venice & Vine. After effectively running up the steps at Runyon Canyon we ride over to Beechwood Canyon and smoke yellow balls of wax with a longtime friend in her dismally-lit apartment. With a purplish haze clouding our minds we return to the Westside for dinner at The Misfit. Nuuzstathena praise El Pueblo De Nuestra Seniora La Reina De Los Los Angeles and all whom she protects. Mahalo & huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥