My guts strung out

Going Away

lutesaroundtown — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 07:15:04 GMT

It started like any other evening, with Emily bringing me tea. Cold with lemon and just the right sweet- she handed it to me landing a kiss. She glanced at my blank notebook and yellow pencil silent on the page, questioning nothing. She’d replaced the Bermuda two months ago with Buffalo grass, it bordered on a wilderness that we both tended to like at times and so I questioned, “Em, don’t you just love all this green?” Pausing after refilling her jelly jar, she looked around, “Yes, I suppose it isn’t really what I intended, but at least it is that.” She frowned a bit and looking down in her glass. “It’s that old half empty, half full routine. I can and will go ahead and drink, but when I get there, all I can think about another refill.” Her eyes pierced and she knew; she knew it was true and that for years I’d been thinking the same things: about grass, about life and most importantly, us. We’d done pretty well I thought. We raised three kids who weren’t behind bars and actually supported themselves. We followed our own paths while supporting each other’s. Her music and my writings hung there magically fulfilling artistic need. And loathed to admit it, our joke about not having enough lawn to plant the other on was a half-truth. We were rich in life, but our little lawn was small, only enough to mow and not quite enough to put a dog on. A peach tree in the corner of the yard, the mailbox, and the porch on which we sat offered our only shade. The sun was warm, and a light breeze cooling. Looking out she mentioned them first. “Hey, look at that, we have company.” I followed her line of sight and at the end saw a box turtle slowly crawling its way forward in our direction. Her grin proved infectious; we enjoyed nature and here it was making its presence known. My grin was instantly replaced by a question knotting my brow. “Hey, I wonder what the other wants?” From out of an adjacent field another turtle popped out catching our attention. “What the…” her voice trailed. Quietly we watched as a few, then perpetual growing numbers of turtle’ crawl into our yard. In my head, I tried to remember if this was one of the Biblical plagues and I asked her, “Do you think we're both just dreaming? The turtles piled up I mean?” We watched uncomfortably, even though the turtles, at present, contented themselves upon the green. They were a less than khaki view. We kept shooting looks at each new arrival. Finally she gave up and reached for the phone. “C'mon c’mon, pick up,” I heard Em say after several minutes. “Blast it!” she exclaimed as a mosquito voiced, “You have reached the department of animal control, if this is not an emergency stay on the line, if it is call 911. A ringing ensued and she called 411. “C'mon, don't you have another number?” “No, not any other than 911 or 311 extension 2 for animals. She hit it and held a long time. We later thought how amazing the number of creatures actually accrued while we sat, stars rising. Several dozen perhaps? We sat waiting. A voice answers tired, “Yes, what is it?” “It's that we have turtles. They're all over the lawn.” “Where would you want turtles to be?” queried the voice. “But you don't understand,” Emily persisted, “There are dozens and dozens and they keep coming.” “Look Lady, they're turtles and not going to hurt a thing,” “Yes, I suppose you are right, but can't you do something? There are so many,” “I image they'll leave when they're ready,” the voice said flatly, “The best I can do is send someone around when they are in the area.” “Fine and thanks,” said Emily between tightened eyes, then said to me, “You know, so much of what we do- we were never forced to do. But don't you think, maybe it's all been worth it?” “But what about them Em, the kids I mean, don't you think they should know?” She stiffened her back a bit, and stood. After returning from filling the pitcher, and turning on the porch light she filled both of our glasses. “Lemon.” she asked, though knew the answer. “What is it? I asked her pulling my chair closer. “What is it about the green lawn that does it?” She looked with me to the little green left. Piles of turtles had filled in what was ours and started piling on top of each other. Still the walkway, remarkable as it sounds, was clear for any one wishing to make use of it. I reached down over the rail and picked up an intruder. “What do you want?” I wavered, “Can't you let us alone?” The face was expressionless as expected. Gray browns and yellows spotted the animal geometrically. It pawed at the air frantically after its initial retreat. Not wanting to unduly alarm the creature, I placed it back near the area I'd retrieved it from. We sat for what must have been hours. Darkness filled the air. The turtles were still there coming ever on. We knew they were, even if we couldn't see them; an occasional scraping of shells, the smell, and their very breathing we could feel to the core. Reaching over Emily took my hand. “We'll be fine. Some day understanding might not seem as important as it does right now. Why worry the kids? That we're together, at least a little longer, that's what counts.” She got up and sat in my lap, bringing her kisses. I cried then. Lost in my grief sobbing, holding her tight, a babe in the woods. I eventually wore out. A cricket stirred in the dark. “Come on then,” she said. My mind told itself to shut down. “But...” I said peering into the night. “No, no time for that, come on.” Helping me to my feet, Em stared into the darkness. “We'll deal with this like everything else, one day at a time.” Taking me inside, she turned out the light. I knew that in the morning, they would be gone.

A Good Day

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 28 Sep 2008 14:11:12 GMT

Coyote slings rat up in the air. It is dead, but coyote still plays. It drops to the ground, coyote ruffs at it. It stays there, and coyote ruffs again. Then coyote whines, cocks his head, sniffs the rat, and eats. Licking lips, coyote runs over to the brush-pile again. His ears perk up, listen. Nothing that you could hear, but coyote does. He hears. The springs coil in his haunches. Coyote leaps high, and wiggles in the ground cover grabbing another rat. In the shadows of a deep canyon coyote dances. Eating again (after rolling on his dead prey), coyote stretches out. He glances about to the outlying prairie alert, yawns, and turns back to the brush.

Unhinged

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 19:12:54 GMT

The baby was crying. She couldn’t go to it. She didn’t have the time. Held at bay, cornered in the kitchen, two young hooligans stood hands up staring down double barrels. Behind Sarah, her twelve-year old son Ryan put the phone receiver on the table. He wiggled his shoulders tight, “She says it’ll be a couple minutes till they get here, but to go ahead and talk, she says, and 'yes' she can hear you.” “Ryan, you take Jenny and see what Charlie wants- Jenny, go with Ryan.” Taking his nine year-old sister’s hand, Ryan hesitated, even knowing 'mother’s uncanny ability' to handle any situation. Sensing his reluctance, Sarah urged him to hurry. “Go on now, I’ll be fine,” she said with a confident voice, though inside her heart hammered out a crazy rhythm. Ryan pulled Jenny out the door. Moments later the crying stopped. From where she stood she heard Ryan’s whine, “Awww mom, he messed himself.” The taller of the two men scratched at his nose and laughed. She raised the shotgun pointing it directly at his gut, then lifted its business end upward. “Keep them up, I can shoot, and will.” Sarah yelled out over her shoulder, “There are extra diapers in the bag. Ryan? Hey, can you manage?” She thought she heard his reluctant ‘yes’ through the tunnel. Fidgeting, the shorter and older of the two darted a look at the back door, its stained glass hummingbird shattered, still open from the break in. “Don’t!” she warned sternly. He looked hard at her, trying to decide if she would shoot. “C’mon lady, let us go before the cops come,” he begged. "You wouldn’t want them kids to see their ma kill someone for nothing now would you?” said the tall man. “Shut up!” Sarah said in an agitated voice. “This is my house, those are my kids and you’ve messed with the wrong woman buster!” He remembered a cornered bear with cubs on a nature show: “Don’t come between them,” had been the advice, and the one he’d opted on a bit too late. Far off they could hear the approaching sirens. She glanced out the window. Before she knew she’d done it, the rifle roared. Instantly the short man halted his move towards what remained of the door. It groaned and fell, unhinged by the blast. At least one of the men lost his bowls and both raised their hands a little higher. Red flashing lights tugged at the night for what seemed and eternity then started dwelling with each passing, sending the flowered curtain pattern dancing throughout the room. Loud knocking at the front door was replaced with the violent knocking of her knees. Finally she lowered her shotgun and the police took over. The two men in handcuffs were escorted out. She sank into a kitchen chair shaking inside and out. The voice buzzed on the table. Picking up the receiver she handed it to an officer who confirmed their arrival and status. Cradling the phone he passes the message: “Margaret says to say ‘well done’ and to ask you if you need a job?” Later, trying to recall those next few moments, it became simply a blur. Kneeling next to her, a young policeman was asking her if she was all right. She nodded and then told her story. Someone handed her coffee; they wrote up reports and gave a phone number to call. Then the tears came. She wanted her children. With brood gathered aside her, she listened to their excited talk. The diaper bag, baby powder, wipes and rolled waste diaper lay beside the blanket. Charlie was on it, kicking his feet up and down giggling in happy gibberish. “Ryan tried to but started gagging, so I did it,” Jenny boasted loudly. “That’s my girl,” she beamed patting Jenny’s head. Ryan looked down ashamed, “I tried honest, but I was too worried about mom,” then added, “awww Jenny, you said you wouldn’t tell any body.” “But mother isn’t just any body,” corrected Jenny. You know?” “You too!” she said to her daughter. Ryan’s pout turned into an embarrassed laughing as she started poking him in his ticklish spots. “And you, you young man!” Picking up her baby and looking at her family, safe, Sarah smiled. “And you Charlie,” she cooed into his cherubic face. Then she cried a bit more.

Accursed Friend

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 13:22:29 GMT

That we share our fleas as old dogs is quite enough, you may keep your worms.

The Prize Inside

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 31 May 2008 17:22:57 GMT

If one could but see, it’s a desolate landscape framed by the wintered Sakhalin forest. We trudge toward our destination at night. There is the hard crunch of cold snow made by feet. A scream, a woman’s scream splits the night, echoing in the dry air. Approaching a hissing gas lamp, see, that yes, indeed there is much snow, snow dirtied by soot and street. Enter into the gray brick building below this dim glow: the hospital. Down long tiled antiseptic corridors and encounter a man pacing. He is looking at each pass, with a worried look, the door we are about to enter. Inside nurses mingle about the bed in their white starched uniforms. The Doctor, sweat running down his dark brow, barks orders of encouragement. Another scream shatters our ears. Her eyes are deep, tragic, and yet beautiful. She is in labor. The sound of pain fills the room. Hard is proving harder, the baby, stubborn. Hours tick by, till the Doctor, taken to humming a familiar march, has had enough and calls for a scalpel. It is to be cesarean. Quickly, gracefully, he works, slicing through the belly of the problem. Blood is everywhere. He holds up a caterwauling babe, a noble story of monarchs, gay parties, and crystalline but troubled lives. Handing it off, he plunges his hands in again, and another joins this cacophony. The tale of a peasant, whose warm fire dwindles to thievery, leading to a wall and inevitable rifle shots. A bit shorter than the first perhaps, it is compact, soaked red, with afterbirth clinging to its pages. This too he passes routinely to waiting hands. “Ah ha!” exclaims the Doctor looking down, “You slippery little devil…” The swinging door shuts. The pacing man stops in his tracks. He looks up at the Doctor who, with hands raised, shouts, “Mother Russia is well! Congratulations, three fine strapping boys, hungry for milk, soon to call for their Vodka!” The Doctor tromps away whistling; leaving the father passed out, sunk, overcome with bill in hand. Doctor Anton Pavlovich Chekhov hurries onward; this is not his concern.

Stripped

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 12 May 2008 01:59:36 GMT

I see in myself momentarily mirrored: A pair of naked yearning eyes succumbed to that beautiful self, flawed and indecent of character. Fancy dancing pinkest groan, ecstatically jumping an honest bone, enwrapped in the most violent of tangos, she tosses the last flower away.

The Hard Road

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 03:23:14 GMT

Tortoise, with nails gray-brown that had toughened each day of his many long lived, till one day he thought of them “My nails are hard; yes, yes they are the toughest ever crawled upon” and so, it was with that thought he set out to challenge life. “This shell is a fortress hardened by tribulation, thus I am strong; I will persevere.” At first the small pebbles merely parted as he shuffled his slow way forward, though gradually, over time, the much larger and bigger stones also creaked and groaned at his passing. “Move!” His mouth tasted the many sweet moist red, purple, and blue berries, and the green succulents along that path. Cacti, regardless of sharpened spines, once sat upon, gave way to his hard snap, hewn as the words that drove him onward. Fraught of callous nature, spoken within heart, mind and soul, they welled up, “Out of my way, for I am tortoise, long lived, of tough hand, foot, beak and shell.” “This shell is a fortress hardened by tribulation, thus I am strong; I will persevere.” Coming of an old age, the ways of the tortoise unfolded and became known while crawling on, boastfully displaying the hardened exterior, and only escaping to it’s soft interior when necessary. Through drought and flood, he found his way. Finding mates, then leaving them, each in their turn. Wolves howled outside, frustrated at his impenetrable nature. Inside, smugly smiling, he rejoiced wizened to the race surely won in steps. “This shell is a fortress hardened by tribulation, thus I am strong; I will persevere, forever.” It was with this confidence one day that this ancient set upon the harsh road of men. Guts strewn, its popped shell was all that remained moments after their meeting. Crushed to bits. Circling buzzards knowing full the meaning and confidant of their own determined purpose smiled, slowly descending.

Adam See

lutesaroundtown — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 20:44:03 GMT

Hung apple haste in weight, of sun’s most radiant slide, gold rays aplenty taste you then, to fill Eve’s knowing eyes. That darkly storm-clouds' gathering, indifferent tossed their rhythm; a rainbow - hope, outside the land of God, new fruit is given.

Sunset

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 19:52:34 GMT

Inevitable as sunrise its changes profound, through day older eyes.

My thoughts

lutesaroundtown — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 06:52:14 GMT

The days were the days, not those that I knew, but of scent and in hues quite familiar.

Of Weight and Measure

lutesaroundtown — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 00:57:00 GMT

What price the pound of flesh then when offered on the street, that in like of herring or tasty kidney meat? Should she twine her hair 'round and coo you with her voice, what price the pound of flesh then when mounting that of choice?

When the Skin Comes Off

lutesaroundtown — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 05:08:04 GMT

Some folks eat Roo, do you? Some folks judge others too, but do you? And when it’s spilt, milk will run downhill; To find a honeyed place inside that nook to hide and still… Some folks rue their food, Well, do you?

Player (for Kelley)

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 04:01:41 GMT

The stiffening, quickening heartbeat of disemboweled thoughts pound. They race hot like hurried nasty teen sex; coming out sticky and grinning at silly creation, with all the moon-pie eyes of God on a good day.

The Loaves of Leonardo

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 16:29:13 GMT

“The Hymn to God” he painted, the fishes they do sing; of silent voices in the depths, and beauty’s subtle theme.

Of Longing

lutesaroundtown — Fri, 12 Oct 2007 06:11:55 GMT

An indifferent breeze dries the ragged clothes of longing; combating aching bones, home, my house- and possessions. High spirits sent zagging haphazard into a blue sky, silhouetted easily, a dancing butterfly in the rippling grasses. Overwhelmed (serve me this scene), a time when even thick thorned roses weep. I take my softened heart thinking now of colder winters, and that longing for a field’s flowers with mud between my toes, I knew then they kept me from that madness in seeing them turn to face another smile. The ache in old bones will not go away, though for all intent in its being neither will the sun.

Flowers for you…(a tiny parable poem for bj)

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 02:07:28 GMT

I’ve only a while to make you smile bright. Might a hop, skip, or small jump do for you, when I am but memory and through here? A bee trapped in the window looks out …

Play with Me

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 19 Aug 2007 14:49:33 GMT

I wanna be the red skin. I wanna be the martyr, hung up, nailed, shot like coyote. Roped to the hood of a ‘52 Chevy; a downed deer rolling eyes and sticking tongue at everyone that stares. I wanna be the Injun layin dead in the dirt, beneath your cork gun. That would be so cool. Tay ya. If only I weren’t so white. I wanna have eagle feathers hangin from my head, wear buckskin britches. (I wonder if my balls would sweat, or be cooled hanging free?) Tommy go get your gun then. I wanna be the misunderstood beaten drunken native, with arrow, firewater, and long raven hair tied in braids. You can be the stinkin white man. Why don’t you folks ever wash? Why do you do this to me?

The Little Story

lutesaroundtown — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 18:45:02 GMT

This is a little story. The kind of story that close friends and family once told each other late at night when there is little else to do. It takes place in a little room, much like one I’m sure you’ve sat in before. A room so small, that a ticking clock can be heard if you are silent for but a moment. But this story isn’t about a clock; or is it about the little grandmama who never remembered to wind it. No, not really. Here then, let me tell what it ‘is’ about. For years, rising with the morning sun and sleeping when workday was done, the old lady had lived without a husband. You see he had gone into the world years before during some revolution, never to return. But that was another time and perhaps another story. One day, her young granddaughter paid her a rare visit from a neighboring village. Seeing all the work that needed to be done, she hugged and kissed her grandmother then quickly set about cleaning the place up. Doing the chores, chopping wood and setting all in order throughout the day, she noticed at the time of the setting sun that the large wall clock had stopped and so she wound and reset it. That night, after the visit and her granddaughter left, the old lady in the solitude of this small room, heard the soft ticking of the clock. Its sound was quite familiar, but she could not as hard as she thought, readily place its sound. It was then after several moments, she decided it must be her own heartbeat that pulsed within her ears. The following day she started to go about her daily business, but the chores had all been done. The brown bread had been baked for her meal and there was nothing left to do. Not sweep, do laundry, shop, cook, or even dust. So she sat, looking quietly out the window, watching and listening to the thumping of her heartbeat as the day went by. That evening, while she sat restlessly in her chair, the clock suddenly went silent. Not hearing its ticking, she thought her own heart had stopped. Peacefully she closed her eyes. It was then, without a purpose, or pulse, that the old woman died. So this small story my friend, isn’t about the clock, or the little grandmother. It isn’t even about the ticking of a heart or the forgetting of sound. It is about time’s purpose, and what we do with it, and what we do without it.

The Fruit of Human Kindness

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 04:50:16 GMT

It was an old white washed church typical of those found in the South- in the parking lot, the minister stood outside waiting as the congregation gathered. When everyone had arrived he invited his flock to pick a handful of blackberries from the bushes that surrounded the church grounds. It was to be a lesson, a favorite that he recited often. Inside the stained glass windows had been draped, and once all were seated, the lights were turned off. The pastor instructed each of us to pass a blackberry to the person seated to their right, and that person in turn was requested to eat it. Out of youthful negligence, carelessness or just plain spite, some had picked unripe greenish berries and the recipient of such a berry would inevitably groan upon biting into the tartness. Following this exercise the minister would give an appropriate sermon (inevitably some passage from JOB) as we ate the remaining berries. An elderly lady I knew to be the wise sort would always pick the sweetest, plumpest fruit she could find. Without concern for flesh or fashion she’d reach deep within the bramble. So it was with forethought, of the amazing sweetness gathered, I’d sit on her right side each time we were asked to play this game. One particular Sunday, after doing this, and lights were turned on, and shades drawn back, the usually hushed crowd gasped staring to my left. Looking over I was stunned to see my aforementioned benefactress gazing up glassy eyed to the limp figure of Christ hanging over the altar. She stood up shaking violently then dropped down peacefully, smiling, but also quite dead. Clutched in her hands the remaining berries gripped tightly, bled, dripping, drop by drop their stains upon the polished pine floor. Sitting next to her in the pew, I could, to my horror see her skin was covered with the welts of chigger and mosquito bites, and the blistering of poison ivy. The sweet taste in my mouth suddenly turned bitter. I ran from that church swearing never to return.

Who will love the mangy pussy if not I?

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 23 Jun 2007 21:53:40 GMT

A flea bitten, moldering, good for nothing mooch. All but deaf she loudly screams: “Feed me! Feed me! Feed me!” at my front door, too good to go to the back porch where her dish is. “Yeah, I can hear you already.” Can opener grinds its way to stinky food. Plopped from the can, the engine is off and running. Scratching her behind her ears while she’s too busy to notice and run away. I wonder how many more years she’ll stick around before moving to New Jersey or wherever they go. Yeah, one day I’ll go out and the little shit will be gone, then I’ll miss her sorely. Francesco says cats are living proof of alien life, and I agree they must be from another dimension. All I need do is wait long enough and another will pop up to adopt me. I never did figure out why my allergies chose cats as the culprit, and I hear tell of cats sold without the accompanying red eyes, runny nose, and prescription meds. But who will love the mangy pussy if not I? I imagine they keep me around ‘cause I can open cans, otherwise I suppose I’d be considered a lost cause and they’d go back to playing with small birds, lizards and mice. Then too, maybe one would scratch my ears or curl up to keep me warm if I were lost in an alley. That would be nice.

Yeah, well…

lutesaroundtown — Fri, 15 Jun 2007 18:47:23 GMT

Foie Gras, veal Escargot, eel, lamb and ham, a dish of fish, even crude fast food that mooed. I squeal in delight, at the cringe (and their fright); while taking large bites, that taste out of sight. Blessed vegetarians be, see - there’s more left for me.

~ Peter and Jerry at the Gates ~

lutesaroundtown — Thu, 14 Jun 2007 20:59:35 GMT

St. Peter: "Next!" (Looks up.) "Oh, it's you." Jerry Falwell: “Praise God, the moment I’ve been waiting for all my life.” St. Peter: (With a questioning gaze.) “Really?” Jerry Falwell: (excitedly) “Yes indeed, I’ve looked forward to this moment, to walk, talk and be in his presence. I can just feel the love coming from in there.” St. Peter: “But you had your entire lifetime to love people and show them kindness.” Jerry Falwell: “I showed kindness to ‘those’ poor sinners who would see the light.” St. Peter: (Looking sternly at JF.) “That wasn’t the point” Jerry Falwell: “What do you mean? What was the point then?” St. Peter: “To show ‘everyone’ the compassion you now wish to be shown.” Jerry Falwell: “Wha…but I…but I…I’m Jerry Falwell, fundamentalist, televangelist and frequent guest of the 700 club. I could hardly have welcome their deviant lifestyles with open arms.” St. Peter: (Closing his eyes, he quotes.) “Whatever you do to the least of my brethren, you do unto me…” Jerry Falwell: (Now panicked) “But…but… they were perverts, not brethren!” St. Peter: (Looks again at JF and shakes his head.) “Right…” (Quickly hitting the ‘trap door to hell button’ on the desk which sings loudly with a silver ‘ping’ of a clerk’s bell. Jerry drops from sight) “Next!”

Crazy Quilt

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 26 May 2007 04:55:34 GMT

Buzzing in the ear… “What on earth’s the matter now?” Buzzing… She pulls the thread tight bringing it to her teeth where a quick bite separates from beauty another stitch never made. “Well, that’s all well and fine...” Buzzing… “Uh huh, well, you don’t say?” Buzzing… Between her fingers she slowly threads another color through. Over smudged and crooked bifocals she takes time to roll her once sharp eyes up towards heaven upon completion; half over the accomplishment, half over the conversation. “No, I don’t suppose it’d matter one way or the other to me.” Buzzing…buzzing…buzzing… Laying the fabric down in her lap she sighs inside and then aloud. “Well you tell him, you just tell him that.” Buzzing… “Yes, OK, well I’ll see you Sunday then… and don’t forget the mashed potatoes.” Buzzing…buzzing…buzzing... “Fine, good night.” She cradles the receiver on her old black rotary, giving it a sour look. Picking up her work she resumes, with renewed diligence and patience, the flower she’d started before all the buzzing began.

The Bending of Flowers

lutesaroundtown — Fri, 11 May 2007 18:43:45 GMT

Dispelling concern with a flick of her hand, like shooing flies away, she rocks back and forth, commenting in a sage voice about how the garden could use some rain just about now. Sipping glasses of too sweet lemonade, a cool breeze carries the scent of dust kicked up miles away and the neighbor's fresh mowed lawn. Lightening splits open the sky, there’s a distant rumble, a soft sigh, and then the protracted shuffle inside for cherry pie, cards, and a tooth aching refill.

You can Bet it’s all About the Image

lutesaroundtown — Tue, 08 May 2007 22:26:26 GMT

A prolific cuss, he slugged out more dead than most writers do in a lifetime (publishers wet themselves). Gone, he’s more alive than most ever hope to be. Bottles raise daily: “To Buk!” LA’s Shakespeare still shakes up the literary establishment, who fear even his “second rate” work for the genius it is; the balls they don’t have. His poetry goes on and on, a romantically reclined boot awaiting the ass of tempted analysts. Six foot down he can still put feminists in a tizzy, with honest words like tits, and cunt, and fuck, and love. He was, and forever will be the crusty old fart with lots to say to an open nose. Raise a beer then: “To Buk! The rose with honest thorns.”