Limelight

a note from the editor

Jesusita is in the limelight.  This is where she belongs.  I love her.  She is one of my favorite characters ~ one of several reasons why I’m more than satisfied when she snuggles up to me.  Yes, I’m the rabbit.

I discovered her in a history book while living in Albuquerque, New Mexico, some years ago.  She was the housekeeper of Padre Jose Manuel Gallegos, a pastor of Albuquerque when the U.S. Army dropped by in the mid 1800s.  Author Willa Cather made Gallegos into a villain in the popular novel, Death Comes For The Archbishop.  But I know better, because before I read Ms Cather’s book, I read a biography of the padre entitled,  Tres Macho ~ He Said, written by Fray Angelico Chavez.  Gallegos was no villain.  He was Jesusita’s lover.  You can find her full Spanish roller-coaster name in Tres Macho.  She & the padre were the talk of the entire territory!

Jesusita’s husband, a Mexican soldier, was killed by Indians.  Gallegos gave the beautiful widow, who had several children, a housekeeping job.  And a romance grew into a living legend!

The 3 stories I wrote under the pseudonym of Cloyd Campfire in which Jesusita appears are the only shining limelight she’s got that I know of today.  These obviously tall stories (one rhymes), featured below, got mixed up with modern day politics.  Sometimes that happens.  These stories reside in The Davy Crockett Reincarnated Almanac ~ which got really political.  Gotta preserve the democracy, you know.

Rawclyde

!

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Kiss of Democracy Theatre

~

presents

THE LIVING LEGEND OF JESUSITA & PADRE GALLEGOS

by Cloyd Campfire

alias

Rawclyde

!

~

~

El padre of
La Villa de
Albuquerque

Padre Gallegos
was he
was he

~

~

Jesusita
mucha bonita
widowed & free

House-keeper
of Padre Gallegos
was she was she

~

~

Together they lived
in thee adobe
labyrinthine rectory

And together
they lived happy
& comfortably

~

~

Isolated &
surrounded by
wild hostility

Was the humble
a-crumble New Mexico
community

For
hundreds
of years

There were
only
folk cures

When Jesusita
took a
spoonful of one

She become beautiful
forever like the
rising & setting sun

~

~

She never cried
she never died
now she do abide

In the world of
today ~ el diablo’s
delectable bride

Padre Gallegos
like everyone else
sooner or later died

Padre Gallegos though
his soul wouldn’t go
to el grande other side

~

~

Now
he’s
a ghost

Still
serving
The Host

But most
of all
he haunts the trail

Of the eternal beauty
whom he loves
Jesusita his holy grail

~

photos by Lilif Ilane

of

La Esmeralda

~

day of the dead art courtesy of David Lozeau

http://www.davidlozeau.com

~

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Kiss of Democracy Theatre II

~

MR. CUTIE PIE COMES TO TOWN

by Cloyd Campfire

2008

~

“Nice landing!”

The midget space alien wobbled momentarily. He looked around. He had touched ground-zero in Prescott, a thriving town located somewhere around the Mogollon Rim, in Arizona.

He discovered himself standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. Traffic chortled by. His gaze eventually locked onto a pair of outlandish high heels, inside of which were two beautifully sculptured feet. He could have leaned forward and kissed the big toe of the left one if it weren’t for the transparent bubble around his head. The little alien’s gaze slowly moved up up up a pair of long note-worthy legs, a black skirt a swirl in the wind, an exposed tummy curvaceous & yummy, a flimsy red blouse under which delicately heaved two bilingual boom-booms, and finally the depthless dark eyes of fabulous Jesusita. It was this entity that had complimented him on his landing.

The raven-haired beauty picked-up the midget extraterrestrial and held him at eye level in the palm of her hand, which sent a whirlwind of emotions through the little guy.

“You’re a cutie pie,” announced Jesusita.

“Please take me to Davy Crockett Reincarnated, the editor of the Old Timer Chronicle,” squeaked the earth woman’s new toy. “I have an urgent message for Mr. Crockett Reincarnated from the ancient astronaut, Merlo 7.”

“Oh no, don’t tell me that foolish old left-winger is communicating with extraterrestrials now,” scoffed Jesusita.

“Please. It’s urgent,” said Merlo 7’s midget intergalactic messenger.

“Do you have a name?” inquired Jesusita.

“Call me Mr. Cutie Pie.” The half-pint in her hand winked at her and did a slow-motion mid-air somersault.

Jesusita blinked & was smitten. She smiled. “Call me Jesusita. Let’s go.”

She dropped him ‘tween her warm operatic orbitations in such a way that his head peeked out just above her low neck-line, and he too was smitten.

Jesusita clickity-clickity-ed her high heels across the concrete to her car & hopped-in. They dashed out of town in the late-model Volkswagen convertable with the top up and the heater on ‘cuz it wasn’t quite spring time. Which makes us wonder, does it not? Why was Jesusita attired in such gratuitis attire this winterlude? Wouldn’t she catch pneumonia? Well, let’s remember, she’s one tough right-wing bitch. She’d also deserted the military, in which she had served as a submarine captain. Now, for the time being, she was a belly-dance instructor.

At Hidden Stables she rented a mule. She & Mr. Cutie Pie hit the labyrinthine trail atop this beast of burden for 3 days, ‘til they found themselves precariously up the side of a deep chasm lost somewhere in the Mogollon Rim. Here they wearily rode up to an ancient cliff dwelling only a few mortals know about and dismounted.

The mule snorted.

And I came out and greeted them. I found it quite difficult to take my eyes off the frog-face in a space helmet peeking-out from Jesusita’s valley of no return. “What’re you doing here, Jesusita? And who’s that?”

“This is Mr. Cutie Pie. Where’s Davy?”

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Mr. Cutie Pie has a message for him from Merlo 7”

“The ancient astronaut!” I exclaimed ~ and my mouth fell open.

Jesusita put her hand on her hip & gave me her devastating Chicano-girl look.

I led them inside to where the illustrious editor of the Old Timer was still levitating above his cot with his eyes shut in a trance. He also was spouting-off about class warfare to Merlo 7 ~ in some strange one-way-street radio-wave way.

“Go ahead, Mr. Cutie Pie. Do your best,” said I.

The little space alien’s eyes glowed brightly ~ and he squeeked, “Mr. Crockett Reincarnated, Mr. Crockett Reincarnated?”

The floating man quieted down.

Mr. Cutie Pie piped, “Colonel Crockett, you’ve been chosen to drive home this message to the population of America: When Barack Obama is elected president, he’ll end the Iraq Occupation, so then you Americans won’t be so distracted from the extraterrestrial phenomena all around you. That’s it. That’s the message.”

Davy’s eyes popped wide open!

Then he fell out of the air onto the cot, which collapsed under him onto the floor, broken to pieces.

“Amen!” cried Davy.

The Davy Crockett Reincarnated Almanac 2001-2008

http://crockettreincarnated.yolasite.com

~

belly dancer

https://vimeo.com/renabellydancer

~

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Kiss of Democracy Theatre III

In memory of
Jesusita, who was the housekeeper
of Padre Gallegos, the pastor
of Albuquerque, New Mexico,
around 1850

~

Old Timer Chronicle

ON THE OBAMATHON PERCH

by Cloyd Campfire

2008

~

“Here’s something I think you’ll find interesting, ” said I.

I handed to Davy the e-mail piece from someone called Shannon.  Davy read it outloud:

“I think the average guy could understand that Phil Gramm, McCains financial advisor, is largely responsible for this banking crisis.

“The Gramm-Leach-Bliley act in 1999 ~ passed by the Republican controlled Senate ~ took away all the laws put in place after the Great Depression that regulated banks and securities.  

“McCain voted for this act and has always been on the fore front for de-regulation in the Republican Senate.”

We both peered up at each other at the same time.

“When did this come in, Cloyd?” said the illustrious editor.

“About a month ago,” said I, his right-hand man.

He mused, “About a month ago?”  Then he hollered, “Why didn’t I see this a month ago???”

I stammered.

Then Jesusita strolled out the entry of my hovel which was hid behind a hanging blanket.  She sashayed into the editor’s crumbling rock-wall office, handed me a cup of hot coffee.  To say the least, she was looking good.  To say a little bit more, she was looking too good ~ seeing as she was wearing one of her elaborately-embroidered  belly-dancing outfits.

~

~

“I’ve been courting,” admitted I.

“No no no!” admonished Davy.  “Don’t you know Jesusita is already wed to the devil?”

“No.  He didn’t know that,” snapped Jesusita.  “But he does now.  Thanks a lot, Crockett.”

“She’s also a right-winger gone gung-ho ‘cuz McCain picked Palin, a woman, for his vice-president nominee,” spoke-up the graphics editor, Martha Morningstarofthevalley, sitting cross-legged on a blanket in the corner, suddenly alert.  Martha had been communing with the Indian spirits of the cliff-dwelling all morning long, while grinding acorns that she had shelled the day before, for the special acorn cakes she was going to make for Davy Crockett Reincarnated’s birthday tomorrow.

Incidently, the ghost of Padre Gallegos, Jesusita’s boy-friend from about 150-years ago, had finally caught up to today’s phenomena but didn’t say anything.  The ghost simply watched from the ceiling.

“I don’t care,” said I.  “I love her.”

~

~

Jesusita smiled.  She smiled with her entire body.  Being a prosaic dancer, she knew how to do such a thing.  Finally, Crockett smiled too, paternally so, and spread-out his arms like the wings of a bold, keen-eyed eagle.  He proclaimed, “I wish you both a bright and happy future.”

“Oh God help us,” murmured Martha in the corner.  She rolled her eyeballs.

“You know, Martha,” squirmed Jesusita,  “You ought to be a right-winger.  You could go to Sarah Palin political rallies & be one of her beloved ‘pit-bull’ followers.  You could scream obscene epitaphs against Obama & be cheered.  In fact, you can go with me to the next one around here.  What do you say?”

~

~

Martha nonchalantly grinded her acorns.  “No thank-you, Jesusita.  McCain’s rabid cheerleader can carry-on without me on her bridge to no-where.”

“Ah come on, Martha,” slyly encouraged Jesusita.  “When McCain starts World War III and then dies from his ancient Vietnam War captivity wounds, won’t you want to follow America’s new Joan of Arc, who of-course will be, that’s right, Sarah Barracuda?”

“No thank-you, Jesusita.  I’ll stick with Obama who does community work with ex-terrorists like the old ‘weatherman,’ Ayers.  By the way, is the Bush family still capering about with the Bin Ladens?”

“No,” said Jesusita.  “Ever since the Bushes found out Mr. Bin Laden’s son, Obama, oops, I mean Osama, was a terrorist, they’re leaving their chair empty at the Bin Laden dinner table.  They’re saving it for ~ Obama.”

“Well,” said Martha.  “The Bin Ladens will probably be real pleased with the next president of the United States, seeing as Obama’s the one who will probably capture that wayward offspring of theirs.  George Bush is so enept at that.  But Bush & his neo-conservative helpers, with their greed & cronyism, are swell grave-diggers when it comes to helping Osama bin Laden bury the American Empire.  Let’s see, isn’t McCain on that team?”

“Kind of,” admitted Jesusita.  “He’s the one with all the experience, unlike Obama, who has no experience.”

“You’re so right,” agreed Martha.  “Obama has absolutely no experience at being a robber baron like all your heros.  How many houses does McCain own now?  About eight, is it?”

Jesusita shrugged.

“I tell you what,” said Martha.  “Give Obama six weeks in the White House and he’ll put all your Republican good old boys to shame with his intelligents, integrity, judgement, morality, constitutional awareness, inclusiveness, common sense, and sense of fair play.”

Jesusita picked up a pottery shard that was serving as a paper weight on the editor’s desk, which was a tipped-over aluminum bucket with a notebook atop it.  She threw the chunk of by-gone Indian culture at the graphics editor.

Martha ducked.

“You’re so violent, Jesusita,” smiled Martha.  “I guess you fit in real good at those divisive Sarah Palin rallies.  Maybe you ought to go with me to an Obama get-together where we believe in equality instead of low wages and high rent.  It might soothe you.”

“Oh, no thank-you, Martha, I, I, oh no, I’m crying.”  And that she was ~ for the first time in Jesusita’s 150 years or so of being wed to the devil, the wedding of which occurred in a spiritual sense in old New Mexico when she took a spoonful of folk cure for a fatal illness.  She had been cured, but cursed ~ with eternal life on earth rather than in heaven.  But now tears cascaded down her cheeks for the first time in her long long servitude to Satan.  The tears fell & fell & fell.  And Jesusita began to shiver.

I ran for a blanket & draped it across the bare curve of her trembling shoulder.  Martha ran for another blanket and with it reinforced Jesusita’s newfound woolly cocoon of warmth.  But a transformation was occurring that could not be stopped.

~

~

“I came to disrupt things here,” blathered Jesusita, her pretty pretty face submerged in a sea of tears.  She cried out, “But now I find I want to join you!”

“Get along, madam!  Get along, madam!” gritted  Crockett.  “We must get to work on this e-mail from Shannon.  This financial advisor of McCain’s, with that bill he passed in ’99, seems to be causing the economic collapse of the United States of America.  We have to stop this laggard Gramm from sneeking his influence into the White House.  We have to lock-out him & McCain with an avalanche of votes for Obama!”

But Jesusita, la bonita bonita, couldn’t “get along” anything.  Her hair turned grey.  Her skin crinkled & wrinkled.  She shrank like a juicy plum into a dried-up resin ~ to about the size of a small monkey ~ and died.

I cannot describe the anguish I felt ~ as I picked-up her pitiful little corpse in my two hands & peered down at it.  One of its eyelids was cocked & a dead eyeball balefully stared back at me.

I felt Martha’s hand on my shoulder.  She said, “C’mon, Cloyd.  We have to get back to work.”

It was then that I went clairvoyant ~ and saw a little butterfly of light expel itself from the corpse.  This, this light fluttered toward the ceiling of the cliff-dwelling & seemed to join hands with another butterfly of light up there, and fluttering together, they disappeared ~ I presume beyond the veil.

~

~

“It’s over,” said Martha.  “C’mon, Cloyd.  It’s over!”

I bowed my head, fervantly prayed for one aghast moment, then brought-up my head & looked around.  “Where’d Davy go?” inquired I.

He was gone.

Martha & I ran outside, came to an abrubt halt and saw ~ as I gently rocked the crumbling corpse of my lost love.  We saw ~ we saw ~ Merlo 7’s  saucer ricochet off a cloud here, a cloud there, and up the invisible vortex ~ gone.  Davy Crockett Reincarnated, the illustrious editor of the mysterious Old Timer Chronicle & pal of the ancient astronaut, along for the ride ~ gone.

“Why do we call it ‘mysterious’?” said I.

“What?” said Martha.

We both stood there up a secret passage of the Mogollon Rim on the edge of ~ the Obamathon Perch.  We gazed thoughtfully into the Arizona tantalizing blue.

“Why, Martha, why do we call the Old Timer Chronicle ‘mysterious’?” clarified I.

“Because, Cloyd, we can’t afford to print it.  All we can afford are e-mails.”

~

The Davy Crockett Reincarnated Almanac 2001-2008

http://crockettreincarnated.yolasite.com

~

~

artwork courtesy of  VisualHaggard.org

http://www.visualhaggard.org/novels/35

~

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Must She Return?

Saint Joan of Arc Reincarnated

~

For in her is a spirit
Intelligent, holy, unique,
Manifold, subtle, agile,
Clear, unstained, certain,
Not baneful, loving the good, keen,
Unhampered, beneficent, kindly,
Firm, secure, tranquil,
All-powerful, all-seeing

~

The Almanac of Saint Joan Reincarnated 2012

http://saintjoanofarcreincarnatedalmanac.yolasite.com

~

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Sheena Is Having A Pow Wow!

Sheena’s Teepee

https://oldtimerchronicleiii.wordpress.com

2015 blog

~

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Pop!

 

 Capt’n Chuck Fiddler’s Afghaneeland Sufi Bubble

excerpts from

Afghanistan’s new Illiad

“Afghaneeland”

by

Rawclyde

2015

!

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El Vaquero

cow10

~

by Rawclyde!

(1980)

~

Part One

~

I was ridin’

my mule

stalking

 the great horned toad

~

 Wondering

am I

Brother Eternity or

 Dead End Road

~

 Fightin’ off

the heat

&

 a hungry vulture

~

Across

the insurmountable desert

of a

single man’s culture

~

I was pouring sand

out of my canteen

when

 thee ol’ mule died

~

 As I walked away

from

the poor dead thing

 I almost cried

~

My

feet

kept

 stallin’

~

 Pretty soon

I

was

 crawlin’

~

‘Til I was at

the edge

of a wide deep hole

 in the ground

~

 N’ you won’t believe

what

I saw

 when I looked down

~

Way

down

down

  down there

~

I saw a Cyclops’s brain

without a skull

or

hair

~

Bloody

& glowing

& big as a

hotel

~

It

beckoned

to me & suddenly

I fell

~

Had a funny feeling

I was fallin’

into

hell

~

Had a funny feeling

I’d be

gone

for a spell

~

Prayed a quick prayer

that was

quick

 as a shot

~

The brain gulped

n’

now this boy is

   food for thought…

~

~

Part Two

~

After

I was swallowed up

by the

    prehistoric brain

~

 I kept on fallin’

like a

drop

of rain

~

Fell thru fleecy clouds

that

like scholars

 quoted many a book

~

Fell into

the middle of a city

that had

a haunted look

~

When you are food

for thought

you grow light like

dust

~

So

when

I hit the street

 I didn’t bust

~

 I just stood there

n’ gawked

at the haunted city

 around me

~

 N’

let

it

 be

~

 The buildings were not

built

of brick

 or steel or wood

~

But they

were

built

good

~

 Out

of

experiences

 long gone

~

Like dancing

below the border

’til

 dawn

~

 Or driving across

a vast country

in an

old slow truck

~

N’

occasionally

getting

stuck

~

 Or working a job

day

after

day

~

For

less

than

 fair pay

~

Then

with

 nothin’

 to say

~

Qwitting

in

a

 spectacular way

~

For

ye olde

whore

 called Glory

~

Or

writing

a

 story

~

Yeeeeeeeap

experiences long gone

these

 haunted buildings were

~

Inside a brain

that was

crazy

for sure

~

There were

beautiful woman

daydreams

 walking all over the place

~

 Each one

a slice of heaven

 begging to

 sit on my face

~

The prettiest

sat at a bus stop

looking in her purse

for a dollar

~

Her breasts were

peek-a-boo secrets

under a

   very unbuttoned collar

~

She crossed

her soul smokin’

legs

   lifted one somewhat high

~

Panty flash

blinded

my

eye

~

 Her dress

slipped

up

 her thigh

~

She

looked

up

  n’ said “Hi”

~

 I could tell

she was looking

for

 somebody to meet

~

So I tripped

on the curb &

fell

 at her feet

~

Attempted to lick

her delectable leg

nothing was there

but air

~

She was only

a daydream

there was nothin’

to share

~

I

groped

about

town

~

Feelin’

kind

a

down

~

Started back alley’

 driftin’

thru this haunted city in

a mind

~

A city

nailed together

by experiences

 of every kind

~

Like

discovering in

a tree a

 circular branch

~

Or

working

on

 a ranch

~

Or

going

nuts

 in a jail

~

Or

around each corner

learning to

 gracefully fail

~

Yeeeeeeeap

I was back alley

driftin’

   in somebody’s brain

~

When I spied a

little girl

with her ankle

 locked to a chain

~

An ordinary little girl

quiet as

a

mouse

~

On top o’

the

tallest

house

~

That’s

where

she

sat

~

Sadder than

a cowboy

without

 a cowboy hat

~

I climbed the stairs

asked her

what her name

might be

~

She said, “My

name

is The Peace And Comfort

 Of Reality”

~

She had

freckles on

her face

 & knobby knees

~

Her hair

was

full

 of fleas

~

Her eyes were

blue

like a

    teeter tottering prayer

~

My heart almost

exploded as

I looked at her I

swear

~

N’ the next

thing

she

 had to say

~

Was “Pleeeeeeease

take

me

  away”

~

So I leaned over n’

the chain on her ankle

I was

 about to break

~

When the clouds above went

crazy

quoting books for

 a soul’s sake

~

Quoted so many

so loud

all the buildings

 began to shake

~

N’ all the

pretty daydreams

below

 began to make

~

So much noise howlin’

they seemed to be

witches

 burnin’ at the stake

~

N’ I half expected

the chain in my hand

to turn into

 a snake

~

N’ across the desert

on

top

 o’ the sky

~

Where the sun

is fierce

& the

 humor is dry

~

There appeared on

a mule

a vaquero

 ridin’ by

~

Oh

my

oh

 my

~

His craftsmanship in

the saddle

made me

 look like a fool

~

He was the

parable

of parables

 so God awful cool

~

The chain in

my hand turned

cold

like ice

~

N’ before

I

could

 think twice

~

Like a

crack

of lightning above

a plastered lake

~

El Vaquero said

“Don’t”

so I didn’t

   n’ now I’m awake…

~

~

Part Three

~

Yeah

now

I’m

 awake

~

Sittin’ at thee ol’

dream table

trying

 not to shake

~

It’s 4 o’clock in

the morning

the sun

  will be here soon

~

I must have dozed

off

dreaming

  yesterday afternoon

~

Of course the brain

I’ve

been walking in is

 my own

~

It makes me

kinda sad

seeing how it’s

grown

~

Such a haunted

home

for The Peace And

  Comfort Of

~

Jesus please

help me

learn

    how to love…

~

tony-alvis-mule-rider

art by

Ladislao Loera

http://www.frenzyart.com

photo:

anonymous

text:

Copyright Clyde Collins 2014

~

Back Desert Trail

http://backdeserttrail.yolasite.com/we-the-people.php

~

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Ruthie Root Beer

She’s Got

A Road Mood

~

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A Ghost Town Called Love

~~~

~~~

A man with a face

that grimaces & grins

is better than a ghost

who stands there & spins

~~~

A Ghost Town Called Love

poems 2012

~~~

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