Cloud Shadow 25


I’ve been lost in

these canyons


for a century or two


Just floating a-

round with


much to do


I’ve read all

my books

about one hundred

times each


My spelling has improved

but I’m

a numbskull now

when it comes to speech


My haunted old boat

has become


as over-cooked toast


About forty feet a-

bove the ground

it can

barely still coast


It has bumped into

the walls of

these canyons a-

bout ten million times


Once more and it will

become nothing but


butterfly rhymes


I have not grown wise

over the ages


plain numb


If you were to ask me

my name

I would

just sit and look dumb


These scrappy


canyons of nothing

but rocks and sand


Have turned me into

the desert-bleached

bones of a

silent time-weary man


A living








Deep Desert sky…


Deep Desert Blues V

by Rawclyde




Rawclyde’s Ranch








ghost town



newspaper office

Old Timer Chronicle III

Old Timer Chronicle II

Old Timer Chronicle I



code room




Lady Poverty


Lady Poverty



down the lane


In her

second-hand dress

so humble

sooooooo plain



Her eyes cast


upon the

trodden ground





heaven bound



When I said


n’ she

looked up at me


Her dark eyes


a tremble

in my knee



To such an



able degree


I kneeled


n’ asked her to

marry me



Since then other



come n’ gone


When I mow

the grass

I never

own the lawn



When I start to

get rich

I just

get kinda bored


Throw it all


n’ thank

the Holy Lord



For the

Love Peace n’ Free-

dom that

Lady Poverty


Keeps on



to me-ee-ee-ee-eeeeeee…



photos courtesy of

Anja Rubik


rhyme by




Surrounded by Pueblo Indians


a short story by Cloyd Campfire


art by Gene Kloss


November 2002


The bus roared down Central Avenue like a dinosaur itching to meet its Maker.

Other vehicles had to swerve out of its way when the driver cranked the beast away from a bus stop. A wanna-be passenger, a pretty good looking young woman, slumped panting after having run half a block just to have the door shut in her face. The driver, fiercely determined to catch up to the sacred schedule, could very well have been Buffalo Bill reincarnated.

Meanwhile, Davy Crockett reincarnated, that’s right, the real thing, sat day-dreaming out the window, one amongst many passengers, all bobbing along like corks on a stormy sea. Davy was hunting down a job ~ the modern way ~ with a resume. The carefully worked-out document, still needing corrections, ricocheted thru cyber space via a TVI community college computer parlor. That’s where Davy was heading ~ day after day. With his eyelids closing and opening in slow motion, thee olde reincarnated settler (he was 52 now) day-dreamed about having a pension and living in an old Route 66 motel.

Then the bus hit a big bump.

T’was morning on the edge of winter, crispy and pretty. The clouds above were bright white and deep purple. When the bus hit the bump, all those bobbing heads almost hit the ceiling, except Davy’s, which went thru it.

The bus had run over a drunk Indian. I could call him a slightly tipsy gentleman. I could call him a poisonally perturbed person. Or a dizzy critter. But the fact remains, the bus ran over a drunk Indian ~ a Pueblo Indian ~ and it was quite a bump.

The poor man died instantly.

Then the phenomenal happened, an extraordinary occurrence, a remarkable thing ~ otherwise there would be no tale to tell. The Soul of the Indian mangled beneath the bus, in its leap across the divine veil and in the midst of the big bump, swept thru Davy’s head. In passing thru, the jettisoned Soul shoved Davy’s head thru the ceiling of the growling transit. So, with his head sticking out the roof, Davy Crockett had his famous Pueblo Indian vision.

Every once in a while, the Sun rises with a bag full of tricks in its hand. Sometimes, as the Earth spins, it does a special little wobble. And on rare occasions, all the planets wink at the same time. Davy’s eyes bulged & his mouth fell agape. He was awe-smitten with wonder ~ for what he saw all around was no more Albuquerque. The restless city with all its insulting asphalt, traffic, and incongruent buildings, was inexplicably gone. And, of course, all the people who didn’t want to hire him ~ they were gone too.

All that was left was the virgin Valley of the Rio Grande ~ in all its withered leaves falling golden glory. Mile after mile, tall yellow grass grinned and waved and swooped down into the rather lush cottonwood forest, thru which wound the mud-a-blush so happy river. Here and there across the landscape 3 or 4 Pueblo villages sedately endured. There were some people out there too ~ Indians ~ dressed like they used to dress and with raven hair flowing like a dream down to their heels. They walked and talked around, cleaning out ditches and picking corn ~ in no hurry. Yes Ma’m, yes Sir, this was Davy Crockett’s famous Pueblo Indian vision!

And with butterflies. They were everywhere ~ painted colorful tints & hugs & kisses & hues ~

By God!

There was even a baby buffalo herd ~ with sparrows parked on the grazing animals’ backs & flitting & joking around.

A road runner dashed by in front of the bus, then a coyote chasing after the fleet-footed bird, as the bus floated along where Central Avenue used to be. The big vehicle was quiet. Perhaps it ran on wordless poetry now instead of gas. One Indian, a shepherd with a flock of sheep, waved as the bus slipped quietly by ~ like a dinosaur ghost.

Davy thought he heard someone clear his throat behind him. He managed to twist his head around, and beheld Our Lord Jesus and Holy Mother Mary sitting on top of the bus. They seemed to be enjoying the view ~ their arms around their knees, delicate smiles on their divineful faces.

Davy tried to bow his head but couldn’t and gasped, “Holy Mary, Lord Jesus, I thank Thee for Your blessings. I am not worthy.”

Jesus acknowledged him with a knowing glance. Mary’s smile gently aggrandized.

Davy, mouth agape again, twirled around into his former forward position, but not via his own volition. Somebody else did it. But who? Who?

Moving along now ~

Clouds slow-danced with the wind. The wind whistled a tune. Thunder rocked and rolled while ants chanted and Indians drummed. Rain fell with much pitter, much patter, for a moment. Then the sun came out and combed his flames, spit some fire. More clouds gathered ~ had a pow-wow ~ and left. This song went on and on without interruption. Rocks muttered silent rhymes. Everything came together ~ stars not yet lit, flowers not yet bloomed, el eternal lizard with the tilted head and the squinting eye. Absolutely Everything came together, started talking to Davy, and this is what Absolutely Everything proclaimed:

“Chirp chirp, yip yip yip, hisssssss ~ the Pueblo Nations are my friends. Pitter pitter pitter patter ~ they dance and grow their corn and every year they are reborn the most peaceful feather this land has in its hat ever worn. Whistling wind and twirling dust, eternity or bust, they’re the oldest civilization on this continent as your steel turns to rust. Leave them, their land, their water alone. They respect and love it while you attempt to chew it to the bone. He-haaa! He-haaa! In 1680, the very first American Revolution took place when the Pueblo Indians booted the Spaniards outta here. These Castilians outlawed the dance, burned-up the prayer sticks, hung the Medicine men. Now they and their priests were slaughtered and gone. Pile o’ pumpkins!… 144 moons later, beckoned by some of the Indians to return, the Spaniards did, and they and the remaining Pueblos together chased after the Navajo and Apache raiders. The dancers danced, the corn grew. The kivas and the mission bells more-or-less sang a tune together, in the name of the Father, the Son, and ~ Hello, Mexican Independence! Forty or so twirls of the planet around the sun later, not one Pueblo Indian voted to remain a Mexican citizen when the U.S. took over ~ took over and burned-up the plundering Navajos’ crops and killed their stolen sheep and put the last incorrigible Apache on the train headed east into the belly of the beast ~ gurrr!!!… Tweeter tweeter, gurgle gurgle gurgling creek, relentless Anglo and Hispanic population growth bred the coveting of Pueblo land, Pueblo water, & the whittling-away back-n-forth legislation of yo-yo Law. So you water-skied on the sacred lake from which flowed all life’s blessings, & tossed your trash upon its shore. And you attempted to religiously assimilate these peaceful folk who were in harmony with me, into your asphalt-spreading, earth-suffocating, prison-sprouting, television-numb-brain society!!! Don’t mess with my Pueblo Nations anymore, ye stunning cunning crack whore, or you’ll be never never never more!”

Needless to say, Davy was overwhelmingly chagrined by this rude addressment from Absolutely Everything. If a drug addict with both feet in the gutter had addressed him in such a way, that would have been one thing. To have Absolutely Everything refer to him as a stunning cunning crack whore, was something altogether else. It was as if he represented something larger, more troublesome, than himself. Needless to say, once again Colonel Crockett’s mouth, yes, went agape. In fact, surrounded by all this pulverizing phenomena, our illustrious frontiersman was turning into a drooling idiot. And he could not make reply.

Time rolled along and so did the bus, too smoothly, it seemed, to be real time and a real bus. Was anybody else in the bus? Or was it just Davy and his beautific Divine Company on the roof? Over the Mighty Rio without a bridge and without getting wet, and up the West Mesa, the city transit lollygagged along, then with an expansive relaxed u-turn, began the return trip back from whence it came. The Sandia Mountains paternally beamed out yonder.

Mr. Crockett’s head had cleared magnificently by this time, to such a degree, in fact, that he became clairvoyant. And whoa! The wide sky over the valley and mesas had become an appallingly spiritual scene. An armada of clouds stretched across the purplish blue heavens. And atop each and every floating cloud gleamed a pueblo, a ghost pueblo, many storied and terraced. It looked like a Native American celestial invasion.

Down below, from the 3 or 4 more earthly villages scattered about the landscape, and from others that could not be seen due to the undulation of the territory and its flora, from amongst these adobe communities was discernable the rhythmic boom of the Indian drum. Everywhere there were gatherings, large and small, of people adorned with colorful feathers, paint, some masks. They circled around here, there, and every-where. They danced. They sang. The earth vibrated, the wind hummed, with a Pueblo hymn.

And from the celestial dwellings above there floated downward many a spanky winged child ~ each adorned with a feather or two upon their head, some with many, and some carrying bow and arrow. Their foundling wings fluttered here, there, everywhere, as they soared and circled closer and closer toward the philharmonic vibrating valley below.

This bountiful panorama around Crockett filled him a-brim with what I can only describe as ~ religious fervor ~ a firmament of emotion in the old man’s being that was no less than a profound Love for Absolutely Everything.


One by one, 7 Native American cherubs (or were they kachinas?) alighted upon the roof of the floating bus. They gathered around the protruding head of Davy Crockett. Jesus & Mary scooted back a bit to give them room and, slowly but surely, with the stomp of one foot, then the other, the little angels (or kachinas?) began a slow easy-going Round Dance.

Today, let’s do the tarantula. Let’s do the scorpion. Let’s do the rattlesnake. Let’s twirl your hi-tech automobile over the horizon and breed a donkey instead. Ohhhhhhhh, the Oil Wars are comin’. Those Oil Wars are cominnnnnnn’. The only thing I want to dig on is a Kiva. You got a society now that breeds fascist control and crack-head shame. The water is going going gone. You’re house is too big and your direction is wrong. You had better start singing the quieter, more harmonic ooooooold adobeeeeeee song. Native shrub and dirt is where it’s at. Your green green lawn is gonna dry up along with all your fat. Why don’t you slow down so that we can get along? Let’s live and die in peace with nothin’ nothin’ nothin’ to steer us wrong.

You won’t legalize the popular herb ‘cuz if you do, your prisons will empty and those who run them will lose their profit. You’re trying to outlaw tobacco too. If you make too many laws none of them will be obeyed. You’re breeding outlaws for the future.

This used to be the Land of the Free ~ before your boat landed. Now it’s a Land of Laws. And your boat is going to sink ~ too many laws. You can’t even blow a kiss without breaking one of your contemptible laws. Robin Hood is comin’. I tell you, Robin Hood reincarnated is cominnnnnnn’ back ~ & us poor folk are gonna squander all your riches & make-do with beans and rice, as usual, & a stubborn little donkey who won’t move if we work him too hard, & a humble hut of adobe, with an underground chapel, a Kiva, out back for our more spiritually inclined moments.

Alleluia. Alleluia. Amen.

Davy couldn’t tell if the cherub was a little girl or a little boy. The others had all swirled away.

“What’s your name?” Thee old man’s tongue was working again.

The Celestial Kid wouldn’t answer. She or he just plopped down into an Indian sitting position and peered with smoky eyeballs at Davy as if wondering where was the rest of the frontiersman’s body. The cherub, with a playful smile, fluttered her (or his) wings like a dog might wag his (or her) tail. And the little angel continued to stare at Crockett, albeit in a sympathetic way, like he was some kind of anomaly.

Davy got shy, started looking around at all the surrounding natural & supernatural phenomena. Finally, he looked back at the heavenly little critter & said, “This is quite a painting we got here of the past.”

The Kid glanced around, softly chuckled, and said, “Past? This isn’t the past. This is the future.”

Crockett gagged, old man phlegm in his throat. With red bleary eyes squinted shut, he gagged and gagged and coughed it up. When he opened his eyes, he was back where he was supposed to be, that is, the present. The baffled time traveler (really?) was pale-faced and a-drool with shock.

The bus was parked on the side of the street. Inside, a couple emergency techs had hold of Crockett’s legs, holding him up. Meanwhile on the roof, a fireman cut around Davy’s head with a giant pair of metal-cutting pliers. A medic was up there too, and a cop. A ladder was propped up against the bus. Emergency vehicles and patrol cars were parked all over the place. Rubber-necking passengers & pedestrians crowded around on the sidewalk, making wry comments. A pretty woman walked by, seemingly oblivious to it all.

Moments later, Crockett stood on a grassy knoll next to the sidewalk staring at the sheet-covered corpse of he who had gotten run over. Crockett stood in deep contemplation for many moments as all around him the chaotic scene cleared-up. He stared and stared at the sheet-covered corpse. He, himself, unhurt, was without a scratch. He knelt on one knee, lifted a corner of the sheet ~ and stared at the battered face of a dead man.

An Indian ~ a Pueblo Indian ~ stared back. Davy imagined the corpse winking ~ but it did not do so. After a while, Davy thought he recognized the face but he was not sure. An Indian feller had offered him a ride at the mission in Flagstaff a bit more than a year ago. They were both staying there for a couple days. Davy, broke, had been hitch-hiking to the Queen City of the Rio Grande for his own final crucifixion, where he had not one friend & did not know a soul. Everyone gets crucified in the end. Some folks manage it better than others. Some get a quick one. Davy still owed this man $12 gas money.

Crockett backed off when the emergency techs stepped up and capsized his contemplations. They rolled the corpse into the back of an ambulance, shut the door, and drove away.

This tale would end about right here, except one more thing ~ one more extraordinary thing. The pretty woman who walked by earlier, walked by again. She was the kind of woman Crockett would like to meet. He hopelessly wished she would turn around, come back and talk to him. Then she did! He recognized her, now, from her movies ~ Julia Roberts!

Eventually she offered him a ride home. He accepted. Wouldn’t you?

“This is where you live?” incredulously asked she when they stopped in her swank Cadillac in front of Veterans Campus. A couple Fire Watch fellers openly admired her & her car from behind the fence. In fact, their mouths went ~ agape.

“Yes,” said Davy. “This is where I live. It’s a lot of fun. It’s the Disneyland of homeless shelters.”

Ms. Roberts studied Veterans Campus ~ the nationally renown transitional zone ~ for vagabond veterans of the U.S. Armed Forces. T’was resurrected out of a spread-out ramshackle old Route 66 motel. The rich & famous actress seemed to regard it as if it were a cold distant poke-mark on the moon. She turned & studied reincarnal Davy Crockett with his captivating new aura, sitting next to her in the front seat of her car. Finally she said, “Mr. Crockett.”

“You can call me Davy.”

“Davy, why don’t you come with me to my Kiva hide-out in Taos?”

Davy thought for one lonnnnnnng heart pounding moment. “I could be your groundsman.”

“Exactly!” said Ms. Roberts. Suddenly she was wearing her million dollar smile. What could Davy do? What could Davy say?



Julia Roberts


Text Copyright Clyde Collins 2015

Spirit Wind


I am your guide, gateway to the dimensions.

I will remain in the shadows,

as you move through the liquid waters

of your essence.

The light is where I am.

There is no time where I wait,

so waiting is nothing.



The whispers you hear in the silence are mine.

I’ve been trying to catch your attention,

direct your energy back to the original focus,

the light that is free of pain and hurt.



Why do you not listen?

You can find freedom here.

You can reclaim your soul,

know that it is limitless.

Sometimes I feel your yearning to return

and sometimes you can almost reach me.



I wonder why you take so long

to see your true nature.

Listen for my echoes in the wind.

I will help direct your sail.




Vengeance Of She (1968)

starring Olinka Bérová

She (1965)

starring Ursula Andress


poem by

Robin Stiles

from her book

Skipping Stones Through The Cosmos





Diana Longtree


by Rawclyde!


Diana the ghost

with the horizonless brains

she’s got the most

railroad track & smoothest trains


Diana Longtree

a floating miracle

so bumpity bump free

she’s downright biblical


She hoovers

near the ceiling

of the jail cell in which Sheriff Isom Dart

has locked himself for the night


Candle melting low


shadows waltzing

beckoning his eyes to close


Diana up there

an invisible cloud full of demonettes & desire


awaits awaits


To slyly slip like a

secret agent

through the gateway

   of Isom’s dreams…


A Ghost Town Called Love


Out Of Egypt The Lord Called His Son

Mathew 2:15



Jesus says:

“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.  For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also…”

Mathew 6:19-21


Jesus says:

“No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other.  You cannot serve God and money…”

Mathew 6:24


Jesus says:

“If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me…”

Mathew 19:21


Jesus says:

“Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God…”

Mathew 19:24


Immaculate Heart…


“My soul doth magnify the Lord…”


“He hath regarded the humility of His handmaiden…”


“He that is mighty hath done great things to me…”


“His mercy is from generation unto generation upon them who fear Him…”


“And the rich He hath sent empty away…”


(quotes from Mary’s Song or The Magnificat in the Holy Bible ~ Luke 1: 46-55)



I awake!



In the old hotel

Diana & I retire to

a busted-up suite upstairs

& haunt it


While we levitate in the

center of the dusty time-deranged room

indulgently locked in our favorite position & getting along

I fall into a deep deep sleep


When I awake I discover

myself prone on the cracked tiles of

the ancient Egyptian temple that’s half buried

in the sand dunes west of Yuma


Ishtar, the lost Assyrian goddess of love & war

sits up, peers down

at me between her miraculous legs &



“It’s time for you to return to

the Christian mission, Rawclyde

Your 10 days sleeping outside

are over”


She then taps

the back of my head with

her bare heel

which knocks me out


I awake again

having dreamed a dream

that was embraced

in a dream


Now I discover myself alone

in a sleeping bag

on a big pile of dirt & chunks of concrete

in the gravel pit next door to Crossroads Mission


Partnering with nothing


or less

than reality


The sun is about to rise

under a pink bed-spread

stretched across the jagged little mountain range

out yonder


A very long train

thump-thumps by &

somebody fires-up a tractor in

the gravel pit


I, camouflaged

in the early morning shadows on

my cold rocky knoll, instantly

roll-up my bedroll


As I trudge away from the peak

of my dreams

I realize that the invisible cosmic forces of the universe

are all around & inside of me


And that they can be evoked

for the common good

or remain hidden forever in a ghost town

   a ghost town called Love…


(Copyright Clyde Collins 2012)