The Good Doctor

Isn’t it nice? Our lofty analysis, that is. Scouring what is said, done, looking for patterns of wisdom. The Colombian Gold Stairway to Heaven, a new sense of a permanent now. Zero tolerance for future and past. The arresting of all those whom fail a drug test. For profit prisons, for lucky, arrested folks. For time spent in an educational institution comes with life-skill choices mandatory. One may learn 1) constant curious/continuously wanting or 2) waiting. You know it has been said, dear readers, those in prison should be freed and those that put them there should take their places. But of course with the new university prisons to be either free or in school matters not. But then again, it’s all a prison if you think about it, and freedom is after all the freedom to control, the market, drive your competitors out of business and charge whatever price you like. I know the answer, of course, is blowin’ in the wind, but I gotta ask: what is your stupid conclusion? The aforementioned sentence, was most uncalled for. And dammit, God-fucking dammit, I’m sorry.

Cuo bono, and Sonny two. It could be the sound, the meaning-effect, of one hand, one arm, of a one handed person, clapping, flailing away. The sound, the fury, what audacity to live! It is Patton-esque! It is what marks men, and makes them scratch. Newly fightin’ female U.S. soldiers, enjoy their company. Time spins an uncertain circle, wobbling, and needing linearity like the Invisible Man needs clothes. Or bandages, or eatin’ something, or wearing glasses on an enormous erection! Speak of it! In thine missives!! Live it! In thou slovenly graces! Oh idiot!! Come to me! Love bomb me baby!!!

Okay, a couple twenty years ago, I was lookin’ for a cult to join. Or one that would have me. But then, of course, like Groucho, I then couldn’t join that one. Sacred weed use, and sexual freedom with ugly guys, had to be high. LSD and mushroom ritual was a plus. Hippie freaky sexual nymphs and MLF bazongas. Bodacious tatas. Bhagwanger-Rashneesh-like, I wanted. But, as things would be, no cult would take me. I tried the Hare Krishna. I was still high on acid, had seen a Who show the night before, stayed up all night looking out my darkened room window. Saw someone with a can of gas go round an old Victorian house across the street pouring gasoline. Saw the house go up, fire engines, police, gathering people. Then, the house burned down, a charred ruin, everyone and everything gone. Dawn and hour away I still sat, tripping. Spewing “Wow”. That was weird. Then I got up, went to my 8:00 class and met the Krishna, dancing and chanting, playing the little finger cymbals. I inquired critically, and apparently deep introspective questioning of all critically is not their bag. I studied cults, or new religious movements, as they are less acerbically called. Couldn’t find one I didn’t like. Like at the fraternity, I was black balled by them all.

But hey, these poems we’ve published and those coming, are, more than quite simply, let us say, they are poems of courage. Tough little buggers. Poem for poem, I’d put ’em up against anything, say, Updike did, or Whitman. Poems of a coward, they are not. Mere Haggard fightin’ poems. Riverboat gambling poems. Whiskey rivers never runnin’ dry…. We encourage, good-bad, bad-good, solid trans-valuing work. Trans-value your values is the idea, in order to get closest to truth. Think of it, everything is its opposite, in truest reality. Big is small and hot is cold. In an infinite anything, like the universes are supposed to be, it all works out. Infinitesimally small from a certain point to never nothing is supposed to be larger (smaller?) in area more than the outward immeasurably large. When something is strong cold it burns hot. I don’t know if hot burns cold; a question probably best unsolved, by me at least, in self-experimentation. Personally.

So read! Submit! Subscribe! Get a Cowboy blog-published poem in and you may be in hard copy zine! Yee-haw it’s another day! A really, one big chunk ‘o’ a never-ending wake. We are timed here, on Earth. So get writing and remember. Hemingway said when asked how to succeed as a writer: “Stay healthy, and keep writing.” Vaya con aetheismo.

Randall K. “Doctor” Rogers 9:38 P.M. 1/24/2016 Rapid City, South Dakota, U.S.A.

One thought on “The Good Doctor

  1. it might help or hurt to list The Beatnik Cowboy as open for submissions at this site but at least it’s free. It’s odd you are not being deluged with work. I’d have to assume writers still don’t know.

    I think I found your listing on Dead Snakes.

    I imagine Duotrope isn’t cheap.

    Good luck going forward.


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