"first enlightenment"

i remember lying on the soft clay and grass bed
staring, already missing
summer camp

the sun beamed down like rays of heaven
through the tall pines and
i was fifteen

my mind a mix of
churches, confirmations and
real life kids

confusion

as i lay there
head on a soft rock pillow
dressed in levi's and flannel

i heard the mountain kids playing
water polo in the mountainside pool
too cool for a sprat from the Tidewater
so i just laid there thinking
of the past week

smoking cigarettes in the woods
with two girls
and
skipping rocks up the babbling brook

it was like Heaven and childhood revelation

hours later my dad picked me up
and i got to drive a little on my
learner's permit
back down those mountains to
regular life
but it had changed

i never saw any of those kids again,
but i have never lost the memory of that sun
and that rock pillow that
cool mountain morning.
12/29.12.pgr

“Hit ‘Re-start’ America: A Not So Modest Proposal”

I was thinking late last night. During the waning hours of Christmas, as my wife and children slept in warm beds with full bellies and contentment I couldn’t help but think of the millions of others who weren’t so fortunate. I stared at the sky outside thinking of a friend who was in the process of frantically trying to find any information at all about her family in the tornado stricken region of Mobile, Alabama. It is Christmas for many, but yet another natural disaster for some others. As I searched the internet and news channels for information I saw the pictures of more destroyed houses and ripped up trees; uprooted lives. I was given a vision of sorts as I stared into the star spangled black.
I was staring; daydreaming at night, and could “see” a map of our Nation. Taking into consideration the recent damage in Alabama, the images of the rollercoaster in Seaside Heights, New Jersey and all the broken and burned homes left behind by “super storm” Sandy, as well as those still without means in New Orleans, Dade County Florida and my own backyard, down Hatteras way. I could see this map and all of the areas devastated that have yet to be fully restored, lives still awaiting purpose, and hungry and cold children. It was like looking at a map on a fancy news show during an election, with different areas lit up different colors, but instead of Red or Blue I saw the colors of green, purple, brown, white and grey. Disaster zones, areas being blanketed in blizzards, and all of the hurricanes blown and tornado touched areas in different colors. Each color represented millions of our brothers and sisters who were either displaced from their homes or stuck in their homes, lacking provisions, some lacking hope. The vision was a spike in my brain, and stirred a sense of urgency, just short of anger in my heart.
My thoughts soon changed to a search for solutions to change these unfortunate realities. I thought of all of the empty F.E.M.A. trailers around the country. I think of all of the foreclosed upon homes as well. I thought of all of the corporate greed, and corporate “personhood” which may be at least partially responsible for the lack of rebuilding, and of the general lack of compassion overall by not a majority of Americans, but by a small few really who hold the power to make all of these disparities into equalities. Why, I wondered, would our leaders not help these people when there is clearly a waste of money and energy in regards to the security and surety of so many “American dreams”?
I thought back in history to my ancestors in Jamestown. Nobody was buying or selling houses to one another, they worked together as a community to build their church, their school and their houses. They worked tirelessly together to build it all, one building by one, until every need of the new settlement was met. Those people were in fear of the natural owners of the land which they had just invaded. They sought to protect themselves from that which they did not understand, and this led to much conflict among humans. Now it seems that most Americans have forgotten the humility and teamwork required to build that first settlement and have instead chosen to follow that path of fear and conflict, worrying more about what they have and can get than those who have little to none and may be trying to “get theirs”. The Empire is again crumbling.
I imagined what I deemed a “not so modest proposal”. It is fact that we have many more empty and foreclosed upon houses than we do homeless people in this nation and many of those foreclosures were either allegedly illegal, or set up from the beginning by greedy loan officers and investment firms allowing people to buy homes that they never should have been sold due to their economic status, in order for the sellers to make a fast profit. The last two decades have seen a very different approach in the once simple concept of banking and investing. We have seen men and women locked up for speculating, literally betting on the ability of persons to succeed or fail. They used imaginary money to make bets, and make more imaginary money. (In a manner of paraphrasing) What I am about to say will be viewed by many as one of the largest and most liberal minded giveaways to the undeserving in the history of our country; however, the late Dr. Martin Luther King, The Dalai Lama, or Christ and the Prophets would call it the greatest move towards peace on earth, and goodwill towards our fellow humans in the history of humanity. A small few people could make this happen legally, and an army of millions who are out of work as well as our National Guard and Military could put on green arm bands and facilitate this. If the lawmakers in Washington would listen to the people who have been screaming about the insane contributions of corporations which we KNOW has influenced our Congress and listen also to the voices who cry out in the night as they have had their lives destroyed, or taken away by acts of gluttonous financial institutions, perhaps there could be a change of heart among our elected officials and lawmakers. American tax dollars bailed out the same financial institutions which were responsible for the bankrupting of a good percentage of people who may have been homeowners or business owners yet those same financial institutions still record billions of dollars in profit every year, and they are no longer making loans. I am no economist, and I am sure anyone who desires to may debunk my argument for this reason or that, but Truth is Truth, greed is greed and gluttony is gluttony. We all know this simple fact.
I propose that “we the people” stand together, through social network sights and community meetings, and put heavy pressure on our leaders, from the Office of the President on down to turn what is now disparity into equality, a “re-start” of our Nation. We can take what was good from our forefathers and the builders of our first settlements and create another beginning, erasing the hate and fear. I say if you are homeless, and you will work to help restore a home then let it be yours. If your bank illegally foreclosed on your house or allowed you to get into an upside down financial situation by ignoring responsible lending practices and profiting from your loss, you get your house back. Finally, I propose that if we have so many empty F.E.M.A. trailers, as well as so many homeless and displaced persons from the natural disasters that have stricken our hard working folks, our National Guard, Military, and volunteers should be mobilized to move the resources to where they are needed. There is a great debate about the wastefulness of programs such as F.E.M.A., and for good reason. I cite mismanagement and apathy. Our country has leaders but no leadership.
To sum this up, much to the chagrin of people who choose to lock themselves up against their neighbors and the world, my proposal is simple. We should band together and petition and march on Washington, as Dr. King did, and demand that the money, our tax money, tied up in this bureaucratic quagmire, be set forth in the effort to wipe out the scourge of homelessness and poverty in America. I say this should be the legacy of the NOW generation, to serve notice to the rest of the good peoples of the earth that this is what America is and stands for. I was watching a documentary on the last days of Dr. Martin Luther King last night, and there were two quotes that stood out; the first was “let’s kill that dreamer and see what happens to his dream”, and the other was “you can kill the dreamer, but you can never kill the dream, hallelujah”! If the late Dr. King were alive today, I am sure he would march with me, with us that choose to adopt my proposal. I am sure that the Dalai Lama and Jesus would walk hand in hand with all of us to make this happen, and I am sure that some of you will stand with me on this simple idealistic commentary. How many of us are ready, willing and prepared to see this through? Too many people have died to create this great nation, and more than a few, but far less than the many conspire to see this nation crumble like every Empire before her. It is the job of the people to take this country back, non-violently, in order to restore that old flicker of Hope, known as the American dream.
This is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and all like him throughout millennia that have recognized impropriety, imbalance and injustice, and who stood up for the rights of all people to have the same opportunities afforded the few who hold control over the majority of society’s hearts and minds. Most of these brave men and women have had their lives cut short to lengthen our reach, so what now shall WE reach for?

“…it all looks the same, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.” from the journals of Peter Butler (3rd piece)

I remember my hands smelling of the grease from an old hydraulic door hinge that had been blown ajar and was banging on the back of the house. The night was forecast to be windy and apparently I had left the screen door to the spare room open slightly. A gust took it open and bent the piston. Using nothing but will and hope, I held the piston and the rest of it there, and bent it back to at least closeable. This Left my hands smelling of the grease I mentioned.
I hadn’t been sleeping well at all for the past several months. My mom has been fighting a few different kinds of cancer, and there is nothing left of her but a hope wrapped in weathered feathers. I took five tranquilizers at around four this afternoon, along with a quart of Mexican beer, and succumbed to the pillow by eight. At two-thirty I was up again; dry mouth and intrigued by all of the wind and rain, normally my favorite sleep track. My wife on the couch with babe on the breast left the bed to my oldest and me. I was snoring and Emeline had fallen asleep watching an animated feature about a man turned beast, and then man again. As I said, the dry mouth had me up for a swig of Coke and then back to the bed. I lay there tossing and turning as the wind screamed warnings to the awakened and to them on the wing.
I am insane. I have always had a plan. After years of running, shooting, burning and sleeping with one eye open, it seems one develops a sixth sense; kind of how a Jamaican dog can sleep in the sun all day just behind the tire of an auto and jump up from sleep mere seconds before the driver carelessly pulls away. Tonight I had been listening for one thing; the crack. There are several dead or dying trees near our bedroom; trees that once made homes for owls and flickers, trees that have long since given up the ability to bend in these Northeast breezes. Every one of us alive has these seasons. And every season brings its beatings and its gifts. I lay there thinking of the poetry in that, my dying mother, and my sleeping daughter to my East.
I was almost asleep when I heard it. I knew when I did that one of two things would happen; the tree would lay down easy in the midst of vines and seasons of underbrush out on the back lot, or it would come crashing through the roof. There weren’t many branches left, but its trunk was heavy with rot and rain. With my head pointing north and laying supine, I could hear the immediate and thunderous crack, followed by the tearing of vines just outside my right ear. Instinctively I rolled left and grabbing Eme’s pajamas, pushed her over the edge and laid her down gently on the floor. A split second later I was covered in it. I could feel cold rain on my neck and shoulders, but nowhere else. I could taste and smell the dust of thirty year old insulation that used to be part of the attic. A quick explosion of dust from the drywall ceiling turned quickly to a thin paste, covering it all. I tried to call out to Holley, but I could not. Either something was crushing my chest or my back, but I could get no air. I could barely sip shallow breaths in the seconds there, silent.
Holley quickly appeared. By this time Emeline was in full throat, safe, unscratched, but scared out of her mind. Everything that little girl had ever known of a home, a world, a life had just exploded as she slept. She looked up from the floor screaming, her perfect face next to mine. I smiled at her, shushed her, tried to reach out but could not move. “Don’t worry sugar, Mommy’s coming, it’s alright.” I tried to mouth the words, but again, with very little wind behind them, barely audible.
Holley rushed in and scooped Emmy up. She took her into the bathroom and placed her in the tub with the youngest, my Ella. I could hear them all screaming as Holley rushed back in to help me. It felt like a million pounds lay on my back. I felt crushed but not in pain. I assumed that a section of the ceiling or the fan or something must be pushing down on me, but all I could really feel was the cold, dirty water dripping down onto my cheeks and neck. As Holley struggled to push and pull at the debris; roof joists, soaked sheetrock and the fell tree I heard her yell to the girls “don’t come in here! Daddy is going to be FINE!” Her voice cracked as she said it. She rushed to the bathroom and quickly returned with a cool, damp washcloth. As she wiped my face and brow I noticed her fighting tears. “You’re going to be alright baby,” she said, “just a few more minutes; people are on the way, I called 911.” It seemed that hours had passed when in fact it was probably six or seven minutes at best.
Things began to suddenly look differently. I could barely see out of the window from underneath the rubble, but a strange glow was replacing the black and wet and dust. I thought about my mom, the hamster I had when I was eleven, my girls, and my wife; and then I heard her again. “Wake up baby, please…” she pleaded as I opened my eyes again to see her, tearfully staring into mine. It was like she was looking at the entirety of me through my face, my eyes, my lips, my nose, my chin. Her eyes leaped like flames from one point to the next, her gaze pained. “They’ll be here any minute.” She said calmly.
In that instance, I began to see tiny phosphorescent orbs floating around me in the room there, and it appeared that the sun was coming up. I could hear the first responders on the scene, and it was clear that nothing lay on me, but through me. Some lucky rotting branch had just the right angle in to enter the upper half of my right lung as I rolled over to push Emmy out of the bed. It missed my spine somehow, although not completely, and had made exit between my navel and my appendix. “Son of a bitch” I thought, “after all of this.”
I had almost made it, I thought. After all of the running, the revenge killing, the arson, the snakes, the clowns and hairdressers, my boss and all of his guests, and thirteen years without a raise, I had almost made it home, and the day before the world would end to boot. Ah well I thought, makes sense in the same way it always had. Holley was there, in and out, wiping away the sweat and grime, mumbling to herself, eyes closed then open, and all the while clutching my beads.
It must have been around three in the morning when I heard the first saws begin to rip and felt the first dull tugs of what would be the attempt to free my body from the bed I had made. Holley noticed a fragmented smile and asked “Pete? Are you okay? Pete! Hey! Talk to me!” I smiled and mouthed some words, still unable to find much air. I remember trying to tell her that the sun was coming up, that I could see it, but I doubt if she heard me. The men managed to free my right arm first. I had no feeling there but she took my hand in hers and placed it on her cheek. It felt warm and soft, like the first face I had ever felt. She leaned in close as I struggled to get the next few words out. I was feeling weaker, but better. “It’s sunny.” I said. I don’t think she understood. “And it’s the craziest thing I have ever seen,” I continued, more slowly now, “it all looks the same to me as it always has, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.” I watched her eyes close and thick tears begin to stream as I felt sleep approaching. “Don’t worry hun,” I whispered, “it’s all going to be just fine.”

OPINION: The “War on Christmas” is a crock.

This will be short. It seems that it is that time again. As families gather and rush to buy every living or non-living thing for their family and friends, the assholes at Fox Entertainment love to push the agenda on the war on Christmas. Why ?
I grew up in a Christian America, and we loved Christmas, still do. In the wake of the last few years of crusade however on behalf of the Bill O’Reilly’s and Pat Robertson’s, this time of rejoicing and loving one another has been hi-jacked by a bunch of right wing fanatics. The last time I checked there were no secret convoys from the Muslim Brotherhood to sneak weapons up to the North Pole and attack the lie called Santa Claus. It IS the first lie many of us tell our kids, never mind the free pass in the name of good will and keeping our tots happy.
This is what burns me. I live among Buddhists, Muslims, and other folk that DO NOT celebrate Christmas, but I am not afraid of accidentally wishing one of them a Merry Christmas. I mean come on, the meaning of the holiday, be it Ramadan, Hanukkah, Christmas or whatever is to rejoice in the good that we have and wish for future blessings among all people. This message has been lost.
Lastly, Christmas is celebrated by a bunch of folks borrowing from a pagan solstice celebration and has misconstrued the meaning such that it is now a global economic watermark; how much did they spend? If this were in fact a celebration of the birth of Christ, which for 99% of Christians it is not, one might point out that He was NOT born on Christmas, as our teachings tell us. The lies do not stop there.
So, in closing, to my Christian friends and family that feel some sort of attack from a boogeyman, hell-bent on wrecking Christmas, seek the true meaning and live it. Love your brothers and sisters as your selves. If I happen to see you and wish you a Merry Christmas, or a Happy Holiday, the sentiment is the same. I mean to convey that I love you and yours and I hope the season as well as the coming year bring you great joy. I think Jesus would stand with me on this one, although I am a Deist/Buddhist. Throw stones at that, and have a very Merry Holiday/Hanukkah/Kwanza/ Ramadan or pagan ritual.
That is all. Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men says it all. You are either a devout follower of your prophet, or you are lost in a capitalist scheme. In any regard, have a good ‘un! And FUCK this “war on Christmas” talk. Blessings be to ALL people. That is what my heart, and my Creator teaches me, no discrimination. One Love.

The Way of the Gun

The Way of the Gun

I could just as easily call this short piece The Way of the Virus, or The Differences in Eastern and Western Philosophy, oft mistaken for theology. For years now however I have been working on a theme along the lines of “what if we humans got it wrong from the start, or what if we have chosen a path to deal with our threats that is completely ineffective, and has just worsened our chances to survive as a race? There is a thread which flows through societies and permeates every aspect of a peoples’ socio-psychological make-up. That commonality among us comes from our struggle, since time began, to control our enemies, from microbial form, to human.
I posted something along the lines of “they that choose the way of the gun shall perish” and was met with a mixed reaction, and well deservedly so. My cousin Steve, whom I love dearly and a new friend Brian, also made great points. I chose to write this little piece to expand on what I meant to convey, in a weird, metaphorical or philosophical sense.
In choosing the phrase “the way of the gun” I meant to convey the way of conflict. This is the thread which permeates our Western culture, religion and philosophy. From the beginning of many of the Holy Western texts, there is an immediate conflict established between a so called “good” and “evil”. We are taught from a very young age to watch our backs, to look out for the boogeyman, and to be ready to defend ourselves. Our medicine approaches this struggle in a similar way. If one gets a virus, then we make a vaccination to kill the virus. The very next year the virus is stronger, and we must alter our vaccines to kill the “new improved” virus. In warfare the same practice has been observed for centuries. We have learned that if one plane, or ship, or tank won’t do the job, we will make a better one, all the while, perpetuating that which I feel is ingrained in our Western psyche.
In most Eastern philosophy, these so called “good” and “evil” forces are viewed as parts of the same whole, there is no separation. In order to live a balanced life, one must respect every aspect of living, whether sickness, or tragedy, as part of the necessary whole and turn inward for answers. We in the west turn to leaders for actions. In the East, it seems that many people accept that whatever they have done, wherever they have placed themselves in time and space, they have done so willfully, and any consequences must be dealt with using a different type of understanding, one which seeks balance, and not victory.
I have often thought of writing an Orwellian style novel about man versus virus and how we have gotten it all wrong from the beginning, and in the end it proves too late, the virus wins. In Eastern medicine and the holistic Western styles which borrow much from the East, illness or imbalance is treated as a natural thing, and countered often with natural remedies put on the planet before we were in an effort to restore a body’s natural balance. When confused, or sad, they turn inward, and seek the reasons within their thoughts for why their actions have brought them to this state of being. In the West, we go to churches, and offer money in exchange for the absolution of our transgressions, but how many of us fully gain any understanding of the far reaching effects those transgressions may have had?
In closing, if we choose the way of the gun, the vaccine, the conflict; we will eventually be undone as a species, in my opinion. If we choose the path of understanding, that of community and compassion, and learn to treat our enemies as ourselves in an effort to understand them, from human to pathogen, we may have a better chance.
Keep in mind, I know nothing really, just musing here, and expanding in about 700 words on a very simple point. I do not own guns, nor do I fault those who do, but every decision we make leads to a consequence of some sort, and it is my opinion, that as long as we in neighborhoods refuse to accept the differences of our neighbors, we will never truly realize harmony and balance as a global community.

(pgr 12/11/12) -"Little Grey Cat Bird"

my little Grey Cat Bird is back
she visits me when cool winds blow
she huddles in the border of bramble
past a tiny bench in my backyard

the spring comes and she emerges
red underneath the tail there
and plump, just sitting alone there
outside the window as i wash the days away

my little Grey Cat Bird has returned for the winter
and i will enjoy her visit until spring
chases her away. for she is not mine
yet she returns.

from the Journals of Peter Butler..."not today"

“not today”

Some days are good; I wake up and continually smoke ganja. The day goes. The stress of the little ones tearing the house down, the working or not working, they all blend together in a nice orchestrated mess and then I look for my old friend sleep. Some days you never know what you might get, but you start it the same way. It is living. Today, after smoking a good bit I got a phone call from my dad’s cell phone, never a good sign. This stopped the buzz. Then he asked if I had a few minutes to talk, sounding weary, maybe tearful, cursing. He doesn’t do that. This stopped the clock. Then he went into the plan for Christmas visits from me and my brothers, and our families, and why. This reddened my swollen eyes.
Holley came home and went to get some cat food, and to buy me some cigarettes and beer. She took the little ones. Holley knows daddy.

I went into the closet where I keep it all and rolled a smoke. I usually smoke filters, but lately I have been conserving, breaking them in half and rolling the broken halves when I don’t have money to buy whole ones. I stepped out into the graying, day after orange of an overcast sunset, leaned against the Ford, and lit up. I thought about selling stuff, I thought of my mom and the trilogy, and I thought of nothing, choosing otherwise to just stare over the tree lined horizon, and the quiet highway. A few drags in, a Southern Shores cop pulled up to the corner of 12 and Loblolly in plain view of me. I watched him watch me from the corner of my eye. I kept on smoking. Sure enough, he turned his lights on and pulled in, very abruptly, authoritatively. Hell no, I thought. I, unmoved, leaning on the Ford watched as he slowly exited his drunk chaser, and approached me, his hand on his steel. “What’s that you’re smoking?” Obligatory. “Before I begin”, I started,” I hope you have a recorder on, because this is tobacco, and a jury of your peers will surely convict you should you take this one step further, once I tell you calmly what I am about to tell you.” He said “that’s very eloquent son, let me see that ‘Cigarette’.
I dropped it at my feet. Then I began. “I’m watching my two and four year old all day, as I get the call,” and I went on explaining everything about my sadness, or apparent comatose stature, and indignant speech. I told him how anyone who could read between the lines of the story would see him jailed for any misunderstanding or show of force on his part. I told him how I’m already on massive doses of anti-anxiety and anti depressant drugs. I added that lately it’s a pile of sleeping pills too, and all that plus beer still wouldn’t knock me down until four or six a.m. I also told him calmly and stoically, still unmoved, that should he decide to cite me for anything from littering to whatever you’d call my serious and crappy demeanor, he had better call back-up and an ambulance first, as well as his Commanding Officer, as I planned to file charges of violation of civil rights, those given a broken man, bereaved in his driveway, smoking the leftovers of a few whole cigarettes. He looked at me like a man looks at a stray cat, or a car accident, or a new baby, and then he got back in his cruiser, and just slowly drove away. You never know what a day will bring. I have heard it, and said it, but I never understood the between of those lines until now.

“american Capitalism” -Peter Butler

I was just standing there, staring at my dead highway and smoking my smoke as the wind blew proper for the season, crisp out of the Northeast. Its cooler tonight, I thought staring up into black and stars, it rained earlier but it was warmer before then. As the smoke began to taste hot I turned, stepped out of the shadows of the Odyssey, and made for the front steps.
I couldn’t have taken more than five or six steps when I emerged into the light, just past the Live Oak tree and then I saw it. This thing must have weighed fifty pounds or more, this beat up looking, pissed off Grey Fox. As I moved into the light, from the driveway it saw me. It started half howling and weaving, running back and forth from one side of my path to the other. My mood changed from mellow and my calm collapsed. These things can be dangerous. I worked with a man who was attacked by a rabid one. He said it latched on and he had to nearly kill it to get it to let go. It shredded his arms and gut. I thought about this, as I also thought; I just want to get back inside, feel that cool and calm and mellow again. As the adrenaline kicked in and I felt under attack, my brain began to spin. I thought immediately of the entire collection of cool tour guide pickin’s I had brought home over the years and littered the yard with. Right nearby there lay a ballast rock.
This rock may have been pulled from a river by some indentured servant two, three hundred years ago, in England or Spain to be used as ballast in a wooden ship, bound for the New World. This simple stone may have eventually been replaced by cargo heading to the old world, and turned into the cobblestone streets, still laying in some of our most beautiful cities; Savannah, Charleston, Norfolk and New York. The journey ended as did that of many souls and ships along my coast, the Graveyard of the Atlantic and North Carolina’s cash cow.

Seconds passed as I thought about all that, while the fox took a stand, right between me and my rest. I grabbed a rock that lay close by, it was about double the weight of a duckpin bowling ball, but half the size, rectangular and oblong, and rolled smooth by centuries of storm. I knew that if I threw and missed the fox would surely charge me. I also remembered that I used to be a pitcher.
Now and then I still throw things, small or large things. As I stood there, eye to eye with this mad or hungry beast, maybe ten or twelve feet away, I tossed the stone up and down. I was getting the feel, you know? I was sizing up the weight, the distance, all of the trajectory and what not. I had an idea and acted quickly. I lunged toward it, in the motion of throwing to see if it would charge or flinch. If it charged I was likely screwed, but if it gave me a “tell”, I would be the victor. Lucky for me it dropped down, and to the right, like a Collie playing with its master. Immediately I threw, taking aim just high and left of it, figuring it would run that way. I didn’t hit it, but it ran away into the shadows, past the Live Oak trees. There was no soundtrack to this. There was nothing but a heartbeat in ears, and the eventual smack spark and bushes of a stone ricocheting off of concrete and into dead underbrush. One could at once hear that and the beast running to its mellow, and calm. It was either taken by madness, or disillusioned and felt cornered. The beast felt that I was the intruder, but isn’t this the thread of meaning in life? We both felt the same, that moment.
I quickly made it for the door and was inside and safe, slowly returning to calm again, slipping into the couch’s caress. It was a draw. That little wild thing wanted me like a big oil man wants every whore’s hole in the Republic of Texas. All I wanted was to be left alone, as I put down the smoke, the one that tasted hot.