The White House’s Other Favorite Secret Agent


from the short novel

Gun 2013




     Sooner or later when you ride Greyhound the pretty woman gets on the bus.  This time it happens in Yuma.  She come walking across the shopping-center parking lot arm-n-arm with her stud ~ a Hispanic skin-head in a baseball cap & t-shirt.  They look smug and happy…  The young lady jiggles along in a sleeveless low-neckline tight black-denim fit.  She looks pretty good from a distance.  She looks even better bobbing alone up the aisle ~ slender & long & pale & freckled & strands of long red-hair falling out of a sloppy bun…

     She sits directly across the aisle from me.  I rip off the glue and avert my eyes ~ look out my own window at a quaint Jack In The Box across the street & think, “Oh my oh my.”

     Once the bus gets out of Yuma, the desert landscape gets significantly enthralling, the sacred feminine entity gets significantly relaxed, and I find myself to be a dirty old man glancing there & here & staring there, in Picture Book Heaven.

     Then the plot thickens ~ like a brick slammed up against the side of the head.  It absolutely knocks me out ~ when her warm thigh bumps into the suddenly no longer empty seat next to me & a voice girlishly bubbles & perks next my ear, “Are you Rawclyde?”

     I turn my head and boom ~ I’m out.  The blackout is complete.  Apparently I can’t handle pretty women in my old age.  I don’t know how long this blackout lasts.  When I come to, her hand is squeezing my knee & she is worriedly asking me, “Are you okay?”

     “No, I am not okay,” growl I.  “And, yes, I am Rawclyde!”

     “Glad to meet you.”  She holds out her hand.

     Limply I grab it.  My head is spinning.

     Her delicate fingers are warm and cool.  Point-blankly & with outlandishly green green eyes she says, “I’m Submissivania Whapp, your partner on this mission.”  When she smiles, her teeth magnificently ricochet the desert light from outside our galloping coach.  With a roll of her eyeballs she adds,  “I’m the White House’s other favorite secret agent.”

     She has knocked me out again.


photo courtesy of

Evalina Galli

“Use things.  Love People.  Don’t Switch.”


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Note III From The Editor

Hello Cherished & Kind Reader!

It’s not always easy masquerading as a jack rabbit.  It’s hard on a secret agent.  But it works well as an undercover ID.  So I suspect a jack rabbit I shall continue to be.  Besides, I got a ranch now ~ on Cyber Highway.

In my old age loping around here n’ there all over the great wide world, or the southwest anyway, isn’t what it used to be.  Seemingly I am also done writing works for the big picture.  We’ll see.  For right now, let’s just expect a promo now & then for what has already been “conceived & published.”

However, don’t sell me short.  Just about everything still functions.  The joints are loose, but not broken.  The brain is slow & forgetful, but yours truly can still think ~ somewhat.  And don’t be too surprised by a sudden heroic leap into action around the corner some time some where, maybe tomorrow.

I’d like to say something about ISIS ~ the real ISIS ~ the elegant & bountiful Egyptian goddess ~ not the thugs who adopted her name ~ although I might say something about them too.  Not so long ago the U.S. invaded Iraq pretty much illegitimately (2003), causing bogus death & the uprooting of homes on a humungous scale.  The bogus killers known as the Islamic State (ISIS) have now resulted.  Their forgiveness of the U.S. isn’t going to happen overnight, to say the least.  So expect the worst from the Islamic State as they might carve out a little piece of desert for themselves.

As for the goddess ISIS ~ expect only the best!  Her tears of sorrow annually flood the Nile River so that the people of Egypt can grow food & eat & live.  The worship of  this bountiful goddess spread throughout the ancient world until the suppression of paganism in the Christian era, which gained momentum about the 5th century.  The popular motif of the beautiful divinity suckling her son has evolved into frescoes of a humble village girl, Holy Mary, embracing infant Jesus…










Yours truly



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A Visit From The Quixote


by Chris Finn



‘Twas the day before Christmas and all through the Garage

Not a creature was stirring.  It was like a mirage.

No stockings, no hats, no gloves were in sight.

They had been given away to help guests through the night.

I hoped that those guests would be safe in their camps,

That no visions or critters would upset the tramps.

I thought of my truck, with a bit of a frown.

I might close Christmas day; perhaps I’ll leave town.


Then out in the yard there arose such a clatter,

I jumped from my chair to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I ran ‘cross the floor,

Opened the blind and pushed up the door.

The sun still shone bright on the rocks just outside

And I knew that out there, there was no place to hide.

Then what to my skeptical eyes did appear,

But a guy on a bike.  His intent was not clear.

He looked pretty grumpy, not lively or quick,

And I knew in a moment he wasn’t St. Nick.

More rapid than turtles, he climbed off his bike

Calling me names I sure didn’t like.

“Now, Soup Nazi! Witch! Now, Devil! Now, Saint!

Whatever you are, my job just can’t wait!”


He rolled through the gate, then up to the door.

I gauged he was not just a man who was poor.

I drew back inside and was turning around,

When into Quixote’s he came with a bound.

He was dressed from a free box from his head to his feet,

And surprisingly clean for a guy on the street.

He had lots of stuff all packed on his bike,

And he looked just like you.  (We all look alike.)

His eyes were quite clear, but his cheeks showed some stubble.

I had nothing to say; I wanted no trouble.

The butt that he’d found he held tight in his teeth.

He hadn’t a light, which was quite a relief.

He seemed to get past a slight nicotine fit.

Maybe all that he needed was to rest just a bit.

I heard a loud grumble rise up from his belly,

And knew all I had was peanut butter and jelly.

He looked almost happy, but clearly no elf,

So I smiled and relaxed, in spite of myself.

This was a nice guy, not some nameless jerk,

And quick as a wink, he went straight to his work.


He cleaned the whole place, including the toilet,

While I kept my mouth shut so I wouldn’t spoil it.

He finished the work he had come here to do,

Washing the windows, removing the goo.

As fast as he came, he left the Garage,

Leaving me in what others would call a mirage.

He rode off on his bike, no worse for the wear,

Calling “Quixote to all and to all a good year.”

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Hark! Mother Goddess!

Quixote’s Garage

Come dawn, I button down the tent and head out on my favorite deer trail, by and by must hit the highway down below and hike along side by side with hydro-carbon society.  Framed ´tween the big trees, winding around mile after mile, slithers the traffic.  In town, I stagger onward, joints creeking, blood clotting, a poor little bum seeking repose in a stuffed chair of Quixote´s Garage.

Once there, I fill a cup full of steamy-hot day-old coffee, heady & thick & free. And drink it down. Hmm hmm good. Ahhhhhhh…

“So Chris, a lot of people around here are beginning to believe you´re the personification of the Mother Goddess on Planet Earth. Chris, could this be true, you think?”

This is what I think about saying to the lean-bean hearty-spleen bounty-hunter babe in charge of this place. But I don´t say it. I have not the courage, or the energy.

“So Chris, why don´t you organize the homeless to do a corn-dance on the courthouse lawn ~ to show our appreciation to the community for all they have done for us?  We could try mimmicking the Pueblo Indians in Santo Domingo.”

Aye! Just another un-voiced thought of I who am drained of gumption by the long long walk into town. I drain my cup, get up, fill it again, and fall back down into the comfortable chair. Ah, this one rocks, slowly rocks, back n´ forth, back n´ forth, squeeking…


Cloyd Campfire




Man of La Mancha



Going To Prescott


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Bullet from Holy Mary

My love, My beautiful one and all My most beloved children, this is a love message to all My children from their Mother in Heaven. My beloved children I am your Mother just like God the Father is the I AM ALL (He is everything). He made Me to be your Spiritual Mother and to bring His Son into the world for all of you, My children. He passed His only begotten Son into the world through Me, Mary, to be the Spiritual Mother of God and man and also the Mother of every child that ever was and ever will be on the face of the earth. My children and God the Father’s children, We are your real Mother and Father in Heaven. God passed His Son through Me your Mother to die on the cross to save all Our children, if you will only let us, but you have to ask God’s forgiveness for your sins to be saved.

The time is so close when many more will die than are dying at this time. I am begging My most beloved children to ask My God and yours for forgiveness this very day because I cannot hold back God’s hand any longer. You must ask God’s forgiveness when He shows all of Our children their life review and all their sins that they ever committed and have not asked forgiveness for during the Warning. If you ask forgiveness from your heart and are truly sorry for your sins, they are gone from your soul and you start over anew each time. I say to all the Catholics that your obligation is to go to Confession and ask forgiveness through one of God’s priest sons that represent Him on earth. This is your obligation as a true Catholic.

My children, the time is here and it is now. Your whole world is about to experience what is happening in the Middle East. Yes, My beloved children, the Americas are about to be hit with such devastation that all will be shaken to the very core of the earth and all of God’s children will be shaken to the very core of their body and soul if not in a state of grace.

This is the chastisement talked about in Revelations. There is no time left, I am telling you as your true Mother. I am bleeding next to the cross with My Son as He dies for you to save your soul. A loving Mother always warns her children when they are in danger. I am warning you now because of all of My love for all of you. My heart aches for every one of you because I love each one of you dearly.

Stop and think for one minute what is important in your life. It is only your soul that will live on forever not your body. It will turn back to ashes as it was made from until the final joining of body and soul at the end of the world and it will be a new body.

My Son has told this messenger that He will not give him any more warnings for His children. I, your Mother, am giving you one last warning of love before all of hell tries to destroy the earth and then my Son will cast all the unrepentant into hell with all the demons if My children do not repent and beg and ask forgiveness…

This message is a loving warning message from My heart that a Mother only gives in desperation when there is nothing left that she can do for Her children unless they ask forgiveness. Sorry, My children, but it has to be said even if it hurts. This love warning is like a mother watching her little child running out in front of a car coming down a road. This is what most of My children are doing; they are running out into a danger zone without praying and without being in a state of grace. Your loving Sorrowful Mother with Jesus dying on the cross beside Me. Love, Mother.

source of bullet


top hat

Gonzalo Ordoñez Arias




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ghost town


newspaper office

Old Timer Chronicle III

Old Timer Chronicle II

Old Timer Chronicle I




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Going to Prescott III


 Jethro Tull & Ustadza Azra, Courthouse Plaza, Prescott AZ


Chapter 5

Cold Hard Ground


I shoulda
never qwit that job
I’d be eatin’
corn on the cob

I woulda
been workin’ full-time
instead of writin’
this foolish rhyme

I coulda
stopped all my flirtin’
gotten married instead o’
all this hurtin’

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


I shoulda woulda coulda

I shoulda woulda coulda
a whirl

I shoulda woulda coulda
been more
a squirrel

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


I shoulda
got off the train
when it was
the thing to do

I woulda
got on the plane
I’d be ridin’
high with you

I coulda
bought a ticket
if I hadn’t
caught the flu

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


a tiny fire
tiny twigs

So the flames
don’t go higher
or the ranger will
find my diggs

It’s so damn
my brown eyes
are turning blue

Every minute I’m
gettin’ old
I coulda
been home with you

Here comes
a coral snake
thru the grass

I rock n’ roll
n’ shake
as he
bites my lonely ass

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


Twistin’ twistin’
around in the dirt
’til every
bone is hurt

The buttons are
snappin’ off
my hand-me-down
cowboy shirt

My shoes are
full of mud
my mouth is full
of crud

I woulda been
a contender if
I wasn’t
such a dud

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


My back is
racked with pain
my mind is
going insane

All my children
aunts & uncles
praying for rain

I am
all washed up
dead flies floatin’ in
my coffee cup

And the mountain
above me
happens to be
about to erupt

Rain & fire!
Rain & fire!
a new tramp in town
no longer fer hire

    Dead on the cold hard ground
        Dead on the cold hard ground


Be true
to your baby
work smart
and hard

Be true
get serious
be a card

In a useless deck
of fifty-one
or you may end up
one poor son of a gun

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


The applause is deafening here in a popular saloon on Whiskey Row, Prescott, Arizona.

The women especially have gone wild, frantically pulling ribbons out of their hair & coyly playing with the buttons on their blouses. They cross & recross their legs under the tables.

Even the tough busnessmen behind big cowboy belt-buckles seem to want an encore. One swings his beer mug into the air & howls, “Sing another one, Clyde!”


Sleeping-bag culture
UFO tent
can this really be
time worthily spent?

From dusk ’til dawn
no fire, no light
the water near gone
am I really alright?

Sleeping-bag culture
UFO tent
just flying around
without paying the rent

From one old memory
to another
all the women I’ve ever known
and Our Holy Mother

Sleeping-bag culture
UFO tent
sleeping & dreaming
waking-up spent

Cold instant coffee
crackers & spam
nice landing, my son
but you’re still on the lamb


 I keep the tune going with deft handiwork on my snazzy guitar. All of Prescott seems mesmerized by the song, the tune, the new guy in town.

Until, finally, the dream fades, ends, and I find myself, really, alone in a tent in the woods. The only tune around, really, is the cold cold wind in a dark dark night ~ combing pine needles on swaying trees.


yours truly

Cloyd Campfire


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Going To Prescott II

by Cloyd Campfire


Chapter 11

Lonesome Highway Song


Walking down the
highway ~

Ain’t it silly
My Way ~

Ain’t there a
sly way ~

To revisit the
I saw in your eyes ~

When your dress
your thighs ~

And I gave-up
ing wise!

Stalking untouchable dreams
down down
the grueling highway ~

Descending down down
the canyon
of No Way ~

Is it possible
this is
God’s Way ~

Of turning
around ~

Painting my face
so that I
am a clown ~

Aimless like a gnat
100 light-years
above the ground!

Step by step
around the bend & down
the moon-lit highway ~

Ain’t there a motel
on this byway ~

Into the languidity of having
pointed to say ~

carbon man ~

And his
carbon plan ~

To drive drive drive
’til the shit hits
that’s right, the fan!!!

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Goddess Arrives

She is beautiful to the seeker of truth

Terrible to those who injure

Devotees of truth




I bow to thee

& why not?

Thee, who art good & in whom one takes refuge


Ye are the nectar of immortality

Oh eternal

& imperishable One


Ye are

The embodiment of the

Om sound


Ye are verily that which cannot be




Ye are the

Supreme empress

Of all devas


By you this universe is born

By you this universe is created

By you it is protected


Oh ye who are the template of the whole world

Ye are the creative force

Ye are the protective power


And at the time of the dissolution

Of the world

Ye are the destructive power


Ye are the supreme knowledge

The great intellect

& contemplation


Also ye are the great delusion

The great goddess

The great daemonette


Ye are the primordial


Of everything


Ye are the dark might & dark night

Of periodic & final dissolution &

The terrible night of delusion


Ye are the goddess, the ruler of








Armed with sword, spear, club

discus, conch, bow & arrows, Slings & mace

You are terrible


And at the same time pleasing

Ye are more pleasing than all pleasing things

And exceedingly beautiful


Ye are indeed

La Supreme  Durga

Beyond high & low


And whatever or wherever a thing exists

Real or unreal

Whatever power there is in it, is possessed by You


Oh you who are the soul of everything

How can I

Extol you more than this



Oh queen of all

I bow to thee again

& again


 Oh Durga indomitable

Devi devine

Please save us from error


Amen & Hallelujah






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New Moon Tribal School of Bellydance



Ustadza Azra




I grew up listening to stories told by my mom about life across the ocean. My mom spoke of the food, her siblings, and the struggle to balance the future with tradition. One of the stories I loved to hear about was the dance. My mom told me about family gatherings where women of all ages would roll their bellies, sway their hips and simply have a good time doing a dance most people would refer to as bellydancing.

Living in America, far away from my grandfather’s side of the family, had removed all thoughts of ever being able to be part of those stories. It was not until my 20s when I decided to really explore bellydance after seeing Troupe Salamat perform during a New Year’s Eve celebration. I realized, after watching those women dance together with such joy and capturing the audience’s attention with their strong but fluid movements, that this was what would allow me to live the dream.

I dived into the dance attending classes and traveling to workshops until I became a performing member of the troupe and the Assistant Director.

Since that time I have studied a variety of bellydance styles which helped foster an appreciation and respect for the many faces of bellydance whether they follow the tribal, cabaret or folkloric path.

Now as the Director of New Moon Tribal Bellydance I have the privilege of being the first point of contact for students entering our bellydance world.  I offer Level 1 through 3 Tribal and Vintage bellydance classes in Prescott, Arizona at Lotus Bloom Yoga Studio.



compliments of Rawclyde


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