I keep trying to mature. Next month I am 62. Keep reflecting how childishly I carry on, 1st week, last month. Had I been born half a century earlier in the United States, possibly I could have become published, to have had a better attitude. Then to have written more carefully, and to have taken release in drunkeness. In the present circumstance, I take some release in drunkeness sometimes. While night and day I am bothered, ambitious, frustrated, craving I could hold together better and be more mature. I wonder can I never quit looking badk hoping to start being less crazy, foolish, vain, sloven, rude, polite, slow, reckless.

I am sentimental and dislike losing touch with any friend. But for my child's mother, all the romantic females lost touch with me on purpose, quit correspondence. Always I tried but could not stop this. They bear grudges, that I was a bum, that I could not save them, what have you. But I arn very nearly certain Madrea is my only child. I was, always, inately conscious it is ignoble to not know where one's children are. Inchoate civilizations are sorry excuse. A heterosexual's first truth, that one is spiritually connected to one's seed. I am born knowing. This late ten or twenty thousand years of city state and chaotic warfare can destroy manly nature..... These men spread bastards and know nothing.

TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG goes on laughing while telling of it plaintively. El Gang knows well, civilization preserves weaker blood, little fuckers some who invaribly finance police and make law for folks. Our Gang is but a several young Caucasian sorts, with a more aboriginal sensitivity or lack of respect, who in this maladjustment are put on the run, in the later 1800s. These boys are sensibly closer to Apaches and Comanches than to ranchers and farmers. They are contemplating their problems and eating peyote. They are kind, nice to dogs and children, but they are too beset and having a good time to be looking ahead much about their children when in early book they take holiday in a small Catholic settlement on El Rio Grande and sow their seed. They cannot remain there, to know their children. They are running, they have illegal enterprise, and the village has commerce with Apaches, who would not put up with them.

Of course, like I say, our welcome had been worn out, and around about the time we began to know Tom Bowman was in trouble again and it was time for us to leave, much as the women hated to see us go. The children too. The children thought we were going to be there to play with them forever. But we understood it was time to go, so as the men in the village could get back to their crop work and all. Our horses was in the corn fields all the time eating all the corn and beans they could. It had been what you call, a good holiday, for everybody all around. Everybody had got something out of it. Even the dogs, as we always were petting the dogs. I am sure they will never forget us, and I am sure they will be the best Catholics in the world, after all the understanding of God we give them. Too, they will be having our children, so how could they ever forget?

These running young individuals would have been fine as hunter/gatherers, or artists or scientists in less pretentious, more permissive civilization, but, violently opposed to common authority, it is long impossible for them to dull senses and act like citizens.

In the literature I have liked I have encountered but some glimpse of the theme. I have not got to the Europeans, or much, but I have seen some of this in some classical American literature. THE SCARLET LETTER, THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN, MOBY DICK, THE HEART OF DARKNESS. Conrad feels like an American writer to me. Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, Jack London, they who speak sometimes of the larger Earth.

I wrote in a method nobody before me had, genetic emotion. I would edit for clarity, sometimes. Inside the unearthy society, I had already known it regarding myself as "psychosis" or werewolf trip. Long is twine of wolf and man, and rancher and farmer killing the wolf fear it, having forgotten who are they. I never had any such schizoprenia.

I took psychedelics in mid sixties and my second trip found how to write it. I had been writing for years, done two books (lost by now) turbulently, so had my style, but in LSD suddenly saw what to pull at for TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG. I would snatch the old feelings when they sailed overhead. I jerked them from my guts. I put English on it.

I went on doing other writing and kept coming back around to Texas Gang when I met Elizabeth Shirley Baca in 1969 or 1970. She lived with her folks there in Las Cruces and was in her first college year at N.M.S.U. and I was the male model in the art department. She was a virginal hippie, big in spirit. She was up to everything, got her bubblegum stuck on my penis one day and was amused. We felt a past life mating, then her mother got in between, and Elizabeth began understanding, without my selling a novel, I would never provide for her materially. Her mother said, like in the book she says: That mountain man, he never had anything and he never will. Yeh, I had an unkempt beard (her father asked her how did I get food through it)(meeting the father maybe one time, I remember I felt self conscious that my moustache covered my mouth), the mother considered me a mountain man. The book is fiction but I took little things, besides names and personalities. I had this experience on pot with Elizabeth, where it was slow remembering on first looking who was the male and who the female. She is a sturdy four feet ten and clutched on me doing her want. This worked into the cosmic story very well. When the mother had her not seeing me, and the book was picked back up and now with her in it, I sent that section to her. I am only an obsessive person, probably also sent her other parts. In this incarnation she has never married. and has got into politics, a little ego maniac. She was running for Congress last I knew, heard her on NPR out of Albuquerque, when last I was at the cabin.

She is big energy, sleeps six hours a night, runs a mile a day and became a vegetarian. We corresponded a short while after I had got cash and was selling TG off the Drag (arts & crafts legal area across from UT), maybe 1979. A boyfriend of hers - seems he was some kind of foreigner, Latin American I think - he had this job in a tourest bureau I think - he someway asked her if she could be the Elizabeth in this "hip book" that was going around town. So evidently some guy somewhat literate, and she proudly answered affirmative. She went visiting other Austin friends too, and tried to find me, in a summer I was mainly camping out of my truck with three surviving dogs, Sissie, Griz, Cayief who was a son from Griz and poisoned Gila - dogs went in different ways in the city, very hard on me - and this seventeen year old writer who was footing the bill, had a job with her father a dentist, and soon she broke my heart, deserted me. I next had address, by help of my traveling wife was back in this house we had lived in but now with old friend of hers for house mate, John Gray, weirdo old friend of mine by now, and, I guess from the P.O. address in the book, Elizabeth Baca and I had correspondence, a number of letters. We were envolved with other people, but have an easy communication. I was in this silly frame however, vain, also told her she hurt me in her youth, to say I would not be crazy for her ever again. Maybe why, without my truly ever understanding women, she only wrote back once after that, and I did send her another one or two. In our youth in Las Cruces, I remember, I had told her about the couple black lasses in Berkeley I was insane about at seperate points and that "I never go back." Now she did read the TEXAS GANG book, and, chortled I would never be rich enough for her. I do not think she is that much into literature probably. She said if she had not been in the book she might not have read it all. She felt her part in it is perfectly real. I dig her, I know her. She is about eleven years younger than I. Damn, I am 62 in less than a month. But, yes, upon certain dimension, TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG is true.

Before I had brought her into the book I had had the first of a series of contacts for contacts for it. This writer old friend in Berkeley had shown it to his agent, Jay Garron, of the Jay Garron Agency who had done MIDNIGHT COWBOY book and movie. (Gee, Elizabeth took me to this drive-in to see MIDNIGHT COWBOY, already pissed about my never having anything - she enjoyed the scene where the guy first whoring out is not getting it up, as I could do this). All these contacts for contacts amount to zero. All these little fuckers we wiped out last time now interfere, spirits interfere. Still, the U.S. is the most unearthy of the technologically advanced countries, most corporate toad throated puss bellies organised against anything original. Fuck, I went on through the contacts for contacts for decades, for this classic I have, this book that is here forever, the favorite book of many people. Decades through the schizoid drug thing, the schizoid government thing. I am not going to Europe right now, my dog and daughter live here. TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG weaves on into LAST LAUGH. Members of the Gang die, and their children become adult.

The history or the coming of TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG is mystical, hard to get at. Easier I could talk about the women, the several who went for me, my Twentieth Century women. Interesting, the two who married me, would not read TEXAS GANG. Elizabeth Baca read it but liked her parts in it. Karen a reader and writer age 17 in 1979 dug it. Cecile a big reader dug it following year, age 30. Women go for it, when I was selling on the Drag a girl I did not know told me her grandmother loves it. And so on.I had a brief fling with a lass I knew in a restaurant I washed dishes at and did a short story there, seemed to know her from past life, she interestingly thought this scene in Part One, Chapter Ten, where everybody on peyote, Bix and Packy bathe Marry Ann is erotic, and it was only intended to be on the roudy, amusing perspective, ah, well, socialogical. Charmaine likes being on the TG book cover, arranged it, did the layout, an artist herself. Charmaine does like one work of mine, the Berkeley autobio, which I did at a point jumping in and out of TG. But women, everybody, all are different. Charmaine's buddy Yusef, brother to Ann Seaman, who I think never read TG, had suggested the excerpt for the back of book, one day I had been amused to read it to myself and then to Charmaine and Yusef. It was when I had the money to print. This back cover excerpt exemplies they who came and left.

Contrary to myth, Tomi is the only one who put me up. The Schizoid Beloved, re. LL, might think, with her mother's help, something like this, but she is seperated from reality. It would be nothing odd, certainly not in the U.S. today, but Blackblive simply does not meet the steadier females for some reason. Now, Ann Seaman's (and Packy's, divorced) son, Barron, gets these correct females, to put up a male protector.... Barron's women are great, become good friends of mine. He is rude and they eventually kick him out, it's interesting. Maybe in a decade I would feel OK going for one of Barron's exes, who knows. In the meantime, TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG came hard, survived. I had it in manuscript and was a big success reading chapters at an Austin weekly poetry gathering, when I met Tomi, who dug it. For example, to her, Chapter Two of Part One is erotic, where Wild Bill says: And, everybody knows, I just want to take off my boots and walk along a warm beach eating bananas, and keep a few knuckles loose on wet pussy, etcetera. Amazing, very funny, everybody is different and real men never understand women. Tomi, unlike the others, was maybe a couple of years older than I, was a secretary at the UT art department, come from North Carolina with a couple of enjoyable sons, Jor and Seth, ages nine and eleven if I remember. They appreciated my wild dogs and on weekends Tomi took us all camping in her station wagon at different points on the Colorado River lake system.

Beloved Charmaine, for example, is not much the dog person. One of her returns, before Tomi and it was here at the parents' house when I had come from New Mexico with the pack. I being normally crazed had got her to have sex right away, and, under me, she began to jerk and twist and grit, and I inquired what was this difficulty and she said it is the dogs, this whole pack of dogs: She is also an excellent poet, and some years later published in some quarterly sornewhere this long poem about this husband with a pack of mongrels she ends up turning out on the highway, and in her rearview mirror she sees him ensnarled in all their leashes he uses all at once. In real life, with that bunch, I owned no leashes, and in Austin in the seventies, one could get away without leashing dogs if one demonstrated "verbal control," and I did. I did not even have collars and tags on them, if they were vacinated which I cannot this moment remember, probably they were not then vaccinated. But, Charmaine is very complex, a higher intelligence none of my old friends knew much about. It amused her they did not know her. Yusef knew her fairly well, or say compared to his brother-in-law Packy, whom Charmaine knew how to bully emotionally, and Yusef had known her before I, and was a bit affixed on her, in those years. Charmaine and I did have some way out sex, sometimes at first, but we both hated wage earning. We had bad tempers but at different times. Something about most of the females who came to me, as I could not learn how to come to them, they wanted me to take care of them, go chase down the money. Ah, civilization.

It has been spoken in LL, I hitchhiked from the Gila forest of New Mexico with ten feral dogs upon my beleagered parents in the Coastal Bend. I was delirious, in desperation, crazed, high, in notion to live on Padre Island with my canine bretheren. The pups on the trip were I think about twenty pounds averagely, and already I was decided to keep the large male Griz and the three sisters, Gila, Cimarron, Sue. Turk went to Kelly, Blood (Macho, renamed by witty Packy to be politically incorrect) went to Packy, Bullwolf went to Hatch but started disturbing his marriage by digging up his wife's plants and he returned him in a dangerous rage and Lyla took him and fixed his name to Beowolf. Whatever, on Padre Island all the fish kills on the beach lacked the fat, calories for growing pups. The strained parents went sympathetic enough, and I brought them back here for the time, got free fat from the local supermarket and loads of fish from my taxidermist Brundrett friends. This litter grew wildly early, and the adults, Sissie and her daughter Samba, would stand delicately aside while the pups went into gang fights over a pile of large fish, thus I took to axing the carcasses into smaller parts, and one of Richard Hatch's favorite stories is seeing me ax my father's garden hose into many pieces while my father complains, though in reality I only axed the hose one time. But shortly therein one of the several months old pups severed the electric wire to our well, which was B.E.'s last straw. More importantly, how is it this pup was not hurt. Next day the parents drove us all to Packy's in Austin. I recall Lyla in this hundred eighty mile drive telling her frazzled husband that Packy has matured now. My parents never could cope too well with any stress. This litter had very much energy, any coyote chatter out in the brush they would uproar, destroying B.E.'s sleep. Sissie had been in heat in the Gila forest, out there much coyotes but a singular animal howled like a wolf and Sissie had answered him in kind. In my reality, I had wolf pups, sacred. B.E. had said: So what it they're half wolf.

Before we were good friends age fourteen Packy and I had age 7 lived across street from one another in Aransas Pass, around one year maybe before the parents moved us to Harbor Island and I did third grade in Aransas Pass but next year the siblings and I attended school in Port Aransas, till high school, as there was no high school in Port Aransas in that era. As little kids Packy and I got along part of the time. He was grumpy then, now, forever. But as a teenager he liked to cause trouble, had imagination and humor. Middleaged, he is conflicted, wants to fuck everybody's wife but does not want trouble. I know him well. He is frequently insane. He does not like most dogs and they do not like him. Same with children. He liked Macho, who had a short and happy life, killed on one of the freeways. Packy fears his neighbors, in particular when he does not know much about them, like in TEXAS GANG.

At that time Packy had a very nice, good looking woman. He tucked it up like always, and firstly she had said to me how much she dug Macho and if she and Packy were to break up she would miss Macho terribly. I was sleeping in his fenced back yard with the pack, and after dark they would uproar over something - hell, the city freaked them. Packy would open his back door hunched over and his head jerks to the left and to the right and he would be gasping: Shut up! Shut up!

His good lady was gone off somewheres for a few days, less than a week. One night he was weeping in his bathroom, after being out playing poker and losing. He was contending he had lost because he is masochistic. Another night I and an old friend were parked in front of his house on mushrooms. It was very late and Packy came out of his dark house railing we had to get moving. We could not judge what was up and he said: Just trust me, Bill, trust me! I had been outside the vehicle talking with him but next he went to attack my friend for not leaving and the alert friend ignited his pickup and split. Somewhere later along I would learn Packy was waiting for this old gal from his work place to come see his large member. I don't remember, but this is how his great woman left. Packy hated his work, his state jobs when he worked, never could tell any of his friends what did he do, would sneer he "pushes papers." Which is what did happen to his mind. Too beset for introspection, too paranoid, his manhood took this pounding but he had this large penis and prayer a man's life could be this simple in howling bedlam, something like this.

Shortly then he was kicking me and the pack out into the hostile streets of Austin. It was the evening I was watching the intriguing match of Ron Lyle and Jimmy Ellis. Packy was climbing the walls for me to go. I saw the whole fight, got the decision. He would just not shut up, and we left.

We headed out in the night for Pease Park, this long wooded park on Shoal Creek. Notion was to hide from police - homeless sleep inside the parks of Austin but it is illegal - defend my pack if necessary to the death, naturally. But before calamity, we encountered Bix. It is mystical.

I had been calm, determined. On the dark road drove Bix in his Datsun station wagon.

Bix, also the friend eating mushrooms with me few nights earlier in front of Packy's (this friend choked to death on steak in a restaurant several year's later, drunk), had pups from Sissie's first litter, sisters of Samba, and also Charmaine's best buddy, Sarah, read on, owned one, these three sisters of Samba would all eventually vanish in Austin. My Samba was my only dog to not survive rattlesnake bite, on the coast, which is easier, than not knowing. I would have to vanish in Austin, Cimarron, and Sue. Gila died of poisoning. Gila's and Griz's son Cayief died in Austin of poisoning. Sissie died of heartworm after firstly Tomi had financed one cure (it is a veterinarian racket - the cheap pills given sheep for heartworm is the same thing - which I later learned from the old vet Kelly used for Turk in West Texas)(small stories how the United States becomes psychotic). All dogs died till there was Griz when I got to New Mexico past the mosquitoes and heartworm, where he suddenly vanished. Hurt me then finally worse than ever losing any woman.

Bix and I had been apart for a couple of years or so, having bickered, which he takes poorly, a Scorpio, but meeting so fortuitiously in the dark in Austin, we overjoyed. He too did state work, for the blind school, had this small apartment right across Lamar from Pease Park. I disremember the details, exactly. But I did have this Volks bug, which someway Charmaine had left with her good sister, named Elizabeth. It was in my name, had been handed down one Xmas by my parents, sentiment to save our marriage. Normally Elizabeth and I got along very well. Charmaine, notmally undisciplined, had in our earlier marriage gone stressed enough to become a screaming nurse - had found some program, minority program or something, she is half white - so she was in Boston and I ever awaiting her return but needed my car. Elizabeth said she had a son. I have six dogs, I rejoined. Too, I had offered to live with the pack in Elizabeth's garage, which she was not using, and she felt she could not bear that.

I can always model for art departments at colleges, I can walk into any campus and get work. Fewer guys will pose naked, and few guys are muscular, besides it is a trade, where experience helps. All I need is a base, and the Voiks was it, and Bix and I with his vehicle pulled it away from Elizabeth who would not give me my keys. Then at Bix's parking lot I had keys made. Can't remember where I was getting cash, borrowing it or something, before my first paycheck from the UT art department where I was famous anyway. In a little bit I got out of compadre Bix's way, went outside town with pack to City Park, unoccupied park on the Colorado River system of damned lakes in early autumn, all these cement tables where I could grip onto for pushups but nobody around there in those years after summer. Up ridge, I would do my series of sprints - in the time of Tomi I did sprints - while the dogs chased deer. Packy had turned me onto some great deal at a butchers for pig liver - we were all doing well on pig liver as waited first paycheck. The Volks just held us all, when I drove back to the art department to work, though before next trouble I remember having as well out there Sarah's dog Blanch and too Macho. I had this supreme weed from Captain Jack, Columbia's best in the seventies, one night remember it was raining and I sat up pleasant, but Macho was happy enough to run around excited out in the rain.

But the Volks doghouse broke down round some point we had eaten the pig liver and I had purchased Purina High Pro, fifty pound sack for the pack unknowing it was for me too. Still I had Captain Jack's Columbian, which makes eating the best U.S. dogfood OK. Really it is stout stuff, a lot of gritty bonemeal1 greasy, most human beings do not eat this well. There was a pay telephone out there but none of my friends except Sarah would deal with my latest difficulty - the route back to Austin is hilly and dangerous along the river. I got hold of old Packy, told him about all these foodstuffs I needed, but he did not listen very well, and drove on out there with another big bag of Purina High Pro only. So we got high. Maybe this is how he left Macho out there, I cannot remember. But, Sarah, wild, wanton, big lass, powerful woman in her own right and maybe she fucked him but she paid this hippie nice guy ten dollars, who came out there and he hauled us out. Back to Bix's parking lot.

When I would gain the cabin in New Mexico and suddenly Grit vanish, I told Kelly watch out for Turk, there is something in the air, currents. Kelly and wife Janus and child Jessica had moved into outskirts of San Antonio, trailer park to study physical therapy (all three by and by) and Turk running free then died on a highway. Lyla's Beowolf had taken this heartworm treatment, where the dog must not palpitate too much while the toxin cleans out the blood, but in a thunderstorm Beowolf got excited and mounting dead microfilaria clogged his blood and he died painfully.

Life and time is not possibly linear, I know, we but enhance our being. I was twice a day taking the pack from the Voiks dog house, lining them up for the crossing of Lamar to Pease Park, where we went up and back, a six miles, hasseling squirrels and coons. The rare racoon getting caught I try to save. Squirrels could get caught when the yammering pack caused misjudgement in the thinner branches, though squirrels are super quick and I have seen them fall amidst the dogs and live. But soon ASPCA put a note on my windshield, concerned with the dogs. Maybe I called ASPCS and bothered with them, but right then friends directed me to this spot to place the broken Volks in foliage near Shoal Creek, so Bix pulled us into there. We were well hidden. Round this point, Tomi had familiarised with me, shown me how to make these burners, cardboard coiled inside a coffee can, and wax - bars of wax, guess from the supermarket - melted into the coiled cardboard. It makes a candle that does coffee or bacon and eggs, etc. I recall being on mescaline and cooking afternoon expresso, the dogs panting contentedly after their run, and human voices drifting in clearly, people nearby who had no idea. Amusing, anyway on mescaline. In bare escapes, one senses protective forces.

Tomi knew I was waiting for Charmaine to bounce back on through, kept wondering how much did she want to get herself envolved. But she gave me her whole body and went for life and shortly had the wholp pack in her apartment, a duplex. She had a fenced backyard, a small garage, she did not use, if I remember correctly, where Samba had a couple of pups off Griz, one I gave to our favorite art professor, the other kept though it got killed later on, Brindle. Tomi really dug Texas Gang, firstly was coming with me to this weekly Austin poetry reading where I would read a chapter. Chapter two of part one turned her on sexually, interestingly. Keep a few knuckles loose on wet pussy! Everybody is different, a girlfriend did not get that part, another girlfriend liked Packy and Bix bathing Mary Ann in chapter ten of part one all on peyote. Anyhoo, Tomi who is dominant chose me as her hero. She purchased all this meat and weed and LSD. Summer she simply swept out all the loads of shedded dog hair. Being Charmaine was supposed to come on in this summer, Tomi and Jor and Seth went back to North Carolina to visit. But I saw them later. Charmaine did come on through, we went to the coast, next she split for Boulder, etc. Tomi gave me then a deringer, when I had got some good work off Captain Jack. It is told in LL, how headed to Boulder to tell Charmaine we can print TEXAS GANG, I had my pack in heartworm fix locked in my cab of pickup when these youths picked shit and I nearly started in on them, except with then cracked window, they drove to the constable, and I flipped out a hundred for the stupid window and impressed everybody. That was a little place in New Mexico near the Colorado border, back when ignorant young chicanos thought it manly to bother strange hippies. Funny how first time I have any money I am a verge of killing punks. I was riding high, like in TEXAS GANG. We got rid of these twenty year old sectarians and the sheriff who now liked me said to me, next time they hassle you come to me first OK? And, himself chicano, referring to the driver of vehicle who tried to run me over who had red hair, that kid, he's half white himself.

My traveling wife was in this Yeshe House Buddhist co-op of mad Rimpochay's multibillion dollar outfit in Boulder, and I have it in LL, how I there became friends with William Burrough's crazed beatnic son, Bill, who drunk and still alive on a liver transplant and a Christian liked to rage and spit on the Buddha floor and avow Christ. William Burroughs and his intelligent secretary James Grauerholz I had already known, they were in town. So was Ginsberg but I missed him, that time. Spiritually I have been on this fringe of the Kerouac circle. Ann's brother Yusef in fact had been at the insane Yeshe House first, how Charmaine went there, and there it was when I had cash to print TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG, blood lusting hippies on horseback (flower children are not violent? hey, tell me I am not a meat gorging flower child), that, I showed Yusef and Charmaine this humorous excerpt Yusef advised I put on the back of book cover....Old stories, I was a sitting here thinking, maybe I should sort of try harder to say what is a jumping quark, named TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG.

The novel is fiction. Some names and personalities are real. But I put us back a century. The American English therein be of both centuries, 1800s and 1900s, and the sociology somewhat also, the connection being when hippie or aboriginal consumes large amount of purer psychotropics, mix of sociologies fuse null and void. There stands the human being. Aboriginal. Texas, Australia, Africa. "All babies are the same."

"Yessir, says Gunter, I am sure what this woman needs is a sense of the cosmos and all eternal life force, get her off her goddamn western civilization environmental upbringing." Part One, Chapter Ten (of Man and Orgy), WE WORRY SOME MORE.

You see what I mean now, near Reader. THE HEART OF DARKNESS, MOBY DICK, HUCK FINN, SCARLET LETTER, here is the subject, the effects of superficiality, fearful culture on the human child, why citizens become schizoid.

Meanwhile, back to the future. Bob Novac talking on C-SPAN. is not frivolous. He was maybe regretting bothering with a gathering of young college idiots, who had taken idiot math in the Israel/Palestine war, idea Israel can just kill them no end. He said to them this is nonsence. Then he flourished his talk to them as an actual conservative. Novac: Always love your country, but never trust your government. He cut their water off, it was great. Then he walked off the stage.

Don't attack first

It is surprising how few Americans are aware that the United States has. been bombing Iraq on an ongoing basis since 1991.

As a result of my tecent trip to Iraq I can attest personally to the devastation caused by 88,500 tons of American bombs. U.S. bombs have destroyed Iraqi water systems, e1ectric power transmissions, communlcations, transportation, manufacturing, agriculture, schools, hospitals, mosques, churches, and synagogues. The subsequent sanctions are the di- rect cause of very cruel deaths of more than a million humans.

Two U.N. weapons inspectors and a principled U.S. citizen participating. in the inspections have resigned, denouncing the sanctions and denying the threat that Iraq will develop weapons of mass destruction.

Military spending by the U.S. ex- ceeds that of the next nine latgest national budgets combined.

The U.S. war against terrorism is a declaration of right by the United States to attack first anyone, any-, where, on mere suspicion, without. excuse, unilaterally. Even the very conservative Congressman Dick Armey has opposed the suggestion of unprovoked attacks by the United States against Iraq.

Ann Bright

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Taking Iraq's side

When I read Ann Bright's comments on the United States bombing Iraq (Letters, Aug.18), it reminded me of Jane Fonda and her days in Vietnam.

I can personally attest to the valor of 168 soldiers who went to Desert Storm with me to preserve Bright's right to speak out. I know the majority of this city's residents support our military's action to keep world terrorists from striking America again. I just would have thought Bright could not have morally considered writing her views so close to the anniversary of September 11, 2001.

Wayne T. Tisdale


Aug. 21


Hey, how are you?

Yesterday was my first day of college. It went pretty good. I rode up there with Stephanie (Michele's daughter) but will need to find another ride since she's switched her only class up there to take in Cross City, now all her classes are internet or in Cross City. Math is the only class I'm taking at the college, 3 over internet and one class in a lab in Cross City. The car is broken again, currently at the mechanic's. Even if it gets fixed I don't know if I really want to drive it as far as Lake City and back twice a week. Though there is a bus that runs up to the college in Lake City, I would have to be stuck up there all day when I only have one class from 10 AM - 11:15. Anyways, I'll work something out.

In your Last Laugh you mentioned that Oprah episode where she was talking openly about sex and young women not knowing enough. I seen that episode over at Ashley's and couldn't help wondering how many 11 and 12 yr olds would watch that and think it's OK to go have sex. The woman on there was practically saying "Yes go sleep around, it's OK."

Anyways do you know yet if you're going to the reading?

I'll talk to you later.



I do not know about the U.L.A. read yet. Lyla opines I should by now start making some money from all my effort, but right now I have not got up any money for Xmas. King Wenclas says they will try to get my plane fare. He did this I would be obliged to make the reading in Detroit. Wish it were in Austin. He says it is for September 19 this time.

In my flipping about checking cosmic pulse (some folks read tea leaves) and insanity of mankind I got in on a Springer episode a couple of minutes late. All his other shows I have come upon are in his studio, but here is a lean youngish working woman in maybe a diner, and near the trailer park, like next door but I was sluggish picking this up at first, seems somebody tells her the Springer cameras are after her man who is in this neighbor female's trailer. By time I began to focus, this working woman (on the Springer show, in the trailer parks, the women regularly feed their men, who get it up for girlfriends who visit, relatives, sometimes even mothers of these working women) was running around this trailer beating on the doors and windows, till this young woman in a bikini opens her door and denies all. The athletic working woman wearing her waitress apron dashes past female in bikini and the Springer camera shows this fellow back in the trailer pulling on his shorts and clothes under one and is going out a window. What next I can recall is their running all around, like hedges or clothelines or what, and he is screaming something about he was only trying to relax and have a little "moonshIne," and she is this reason to get naked or the like. She is yelling, very aggressive, one point she falls, and recovers, gets right up running after this craven man she keeps. I was concluding never have I seen anything on television this funny. If this shit was fake, this was genius, with genius actors. But it is real, white hicks in trailers, ruptured gap between rich and poor in America, in their trailers they have methodrine labs. Yeast of the Jerry Springer show. As, my bodily pain has got better and I arn slowly getting into some fat running, I could see this couple had been doing some pretty good sprinting around, yelling the same while, and the male began pleading with his athletic working woman to talk it over, and out comes this gargantuan redneck in boxer underwear holding a glass of clear liquid. Perhaps besides meth labs they have stills in their trailers, hell, it figures, synergistic. This guy was enormous, enormous, had blubber elephantine thighs,, enormous belly. He was saying to effect of why don't yall settle on down now. It was the funniest thing I have seen on TV, and I tried to get Bix, but when I got hold of Bix the Springer show was back in the studio, and I never did find further reference about this trailer park stuff where the Springer athletic cameras are chasing these people.

Elizabeth smiled and went beautiful the more they joked and looked upon her but they said, will you have Wild Bill, now, Elizabeth, for better and worse, for good time and bad, through thick and thin?
Through hunger and feast?
Through summer and winter?
Night'n day?
Poor'n rich.
Winning'n losing.
Triumph'n disaster.
Riches'n total loss.
Smooth sailing'n blood, sweat'n tears.
In'n out.
Over'n under.
On through'n all the way back.
Across the river'n into the trees.
Over the snags and up the ridge and down into the gorge.
No, she said.

I was supposed to have earlier stuck in this TG back of cover excerpt. Within the book, it is in the long paragraph, understatement. It looks good this way on the back of the famous underground novel.

Also, about the women around me and my struggle with my book, in this chapter I had meant to say earlier: I still love them all.

My old friend Botello, in Italy again, says I am repetitive but that it is my style. Right, nothing new about it, nothing new under the sun of man. One belches, and edits the belch if there is time. This allows folks to gather a lout is not faking. Botello also suggests shorter paragraphs.

Crashing avalanches of long paragraph in murderous bedlam or Faulknerian intrigue or Kerouacian delirium knockouts the morons, the speed readers. What? What was THAT?

I do not think much on it. I be a feel person. Natural is good, let it crash onward. Let it slide wetly. Blackolive is repetitive, maybe CLIX is the most repetitivd LL to date. But it hard to know for sure, I am UNDERGROUND, no editor.

I started thinking about the coming of TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG, and got hung up about women. I can be a philosopher and I have not masturbated for a decade or so at minimum and if Cynthia in Florida downs 12 cans and calls gutteral my blood begans pumping.

Tina Martinez is the girl liking the peyote/bath transformation of Mary Ann in TEXAS GANG. Tina is one of these so female who live bisexual, baffles me. Real men do not understand women though I feel I know her soul. Another such girlfriend, briefly, in fact she was but on outs with her guy, Jill?, I can't think of her name, less it be Jill, yeah, she and on acid knew our souls, and I said to her I cannot understand how such a female person could be bisexual and she said it is not for me to understand.

Ah, if the Dear Reader counted, the eighth pup of that Gila litter is Herman. Herman was this big awkward sappy male went to Richard Hatch's brother, Charlie. I forget what happened with Herman but all that litter had short life, the currents

. All in eternity is never linear but is relative.


I received the 4th $20 for February.
Here's a picture of Medicine that I took. He's got one of those expressions on his face.