Kiss of Democracy Theatre I




by Cloyd Campfire






El padre of
La Villa de

Padre Gallegos
was he
was he



mucha bonita
widowed & free

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

of years

There were
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



a ghost

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


La Esmeralda


day of the dead art courtesy of David Lozeau


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the democratic party digs & falls into its own self-made grave


by mary kay linge

new york post

march 7, 2020


Maybe it’s the Democratic Party that’s the misogynist one.

Hawaii Rep. Tulsi Gabbard — the last remaining woman in the Democrats’ presidential race — has been shut out of the party’s next debate with a rule change that makes it mathematically impossible for her to claim a podium.

“To keep me off the stage, the DNC again arbitrarily changed the debate qualifications,” Gabbard tweeted late Friday.  “Previously they changed the qualifications in the OPPOSITE direction so Bloomberg could debate.”

She implored the two front-runners, former Vice President Joe Biden and Vermont Sen. Bernie Sanders, to intervene on her behalf.

Under the party’s most recent set of debate rules, any candidate who had won at least one delegate in the party’s first 25 nomination contests had the right to take the stage.

Gabbard, who gained two delegates in American Samoa’s caucuses on Super Tuesday, would have qualified for the upcoming debate in Phoenix, Arizona, March 15.

But on Friday, party poobahs announced new criteria requiring candidates to hold at least 20% of all awarded delegates by the time of the next scheduled debate in Phoenix on March 15.

Even if Gabbard had ran the table in the round of contests last Tuesday, she could not have met that threshold, Business Insider calculated.

Former rival Andrew Yang tweeted rueful sympathies.

“Someone asked me what the qualifications for the next debate would be,” he posted. “I responded ‘whatever Tulsi has plus one.’”







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make it tulsi & duty world!


An Example Of Kindness

“duty world”


found in an old army newspaper

from hawaii


   PFC Denise Daisy, patient care specialist, Ward Pluto, Tripler Army Medical Center, had ten minutes to spare before her shift was over.  All her duties were long gone and done ~ except one.  This last duty was taken upon herself voluntarily.

     “Want your feet raised, Maybalene?” she asked softly of a girl encased in a cocoon of plaster.

     Painfully but with gratitude the patient nodded.

     Daisy raised Maybalene’s feet.  “Is there anything else I can do for you before I take off?”

     “Juice,” gasped Maybalene.

     Daisy went for the juice.  On her way, she fluffed up the scrunched pillow of a grim-faced older lady lying in a sea of tubes blooming out in various directions.

     “Thank you, young lady.  You’re very kind.  Will you get me some juice too?  Oh yes, and could you change the channel on that television set?”



     “Of course, Mrs. Newport,” replied Daisy ~ and did as she was bidden.

     “I want some juice too, you blankety blank blank,” cursed a patient who had just arrived at the ward and in a raging mood.

     “I’m sorry, Kathy,” apologized Daisy.  “But you’re on a restricted diet.  How about a game of backgammon instead?”

     “How did you know my name?” demanded the patient.

     “I checked when I saw you being wheeled in here by the other patient care specialist,” explained Daisy.

     “Well, I’ll be!” grimaced the new arrival.

     “Well?” said Daisy

     “Well what?”

     “Want to play a game of backgammon?” Daisy checked her watch.  “I have time now.  I’m off duty.”

     “Why don’t you leave this pit then?” the new arrival snarled.  Her eyelids fluttered.  She stared at the bandage-wrapped stump of her recently amputated leg.

     “This isn’t a pit,” said Daisy.  “This is Ward Pluto, where all the patients are always happy.”

     The patient wrenched with discomfort.  “I’m not happy.”

     Daisy smiled, “You will be.”

(text copyright clyde collins 2020)




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happy valentine’s day


Of All the Spirit’s Gifts to Me

by Fred Pratt Green



Of all the Spirit’s gifts to me,

I pray that I may never cease

to take and treasure most these three:

love, joy, and peace.


The Spirit shows me love’s

the root of every gift sent from above,

of every flower, of every fruit,

that God is love.


The Spirit shows if I possess

a love no evil can destroy;

how ever great is my distress,

then this is joy.


Though what’s ahead is mystery,

and life itself is ours on lease,

each day the Spirit says to me,

“Go forth in peace!”


We go in peace, but made aware

that, in a needy world like this,

our clearest purpose is to share

love, joy, and peace.


Copyright 1979 Hope Publishing Co.

found in The United Methodist Hymnal


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 This One


On The House



by Rawclyde



     The music pounded like a locomotive.  The go-go girl followed it like a train.  And every patron in the bar was her caboose.

     Her nucleus of sexuality, hardly covered by a little white bikini bottom oh so snug, exploded, poetically speaking, all over the stage.

     She aimed it at a poor hobo and pumped him a few.  She would never know how much he appreciated that.  She did the bump ‘de bump with a lonely soldier boy’s ambition and ground to pieces an old cowboy’s sadness.  Boldly she stepped up close to a wicked man’s leer, crouched low and with her hands ludicrously rammed it in and out.

     Her fat, shapely, little belly, a masterpiece so tan, so smooth, so hot, was just about smoking like a home on fire.  Her belly button was the sun.  Her stage, more than just creaking wood, was the face of every feller’s drifting dream.

     She really knew how to dance.

     Like a snake, like a swan, like a cloud, like a shooting star, like the terrible truth and a thousand lies.  Nobody, absolutely nobody played pool when Philana danced.

     A tall stranger sauntered into the place.  Infront of the go-go bar’s stage, or ramp, he stoically stood ~ watched the go-go girl go-go.  His presence loomed so profoundly that the hooting, guffawing, and even the silent dreaming of all the Saturday night patrons ~ died.  He was that rare kind of guy.  Besides, except for a preposterous, black, cowboy hat on his head, he was naked.

     The go-go tune ended.

     Nobody clapped.  Usually everybody clapped, and a few would holler, when Philana finished a number.  But due to this stranger’s strange naked presence ~ not this time.

     An old drunk accidently knocked over a glass of beer.  He ducked his head sheepishly.  Not a soul moved.  Deep silence reigned.

     The stranger, lewdly handsome, smiled just a little bit at the intrigued saloon girl who was now standing still in the quiet limelight.  She rested her hand on her smooth hip, eyeballed the stranger up and down ~ especially down.  She was out of breath.  Her round, bare, little breasts gently rose and fell.

     “What?  What?  Are you trying to corrupt this town?”  she finally asked of him ~ her smile twitching.

     “No,” replied the stranger with an unobtrusive chuckle.  “Just escaped from jail.  All I could grab on my way out was ~ my hat.”

     Another working girl, scantily clad, quietly served him a beer.  “The bartender says this one is on the house,” she whispered.

     The stranger nodded gratefully, toasted the bartender, lifted the frosty mug to his thirsty lips.

     Philana rested a high-heeled foot on the bar that encircled the ramp.  She was staring at the stranger with not just her eyes, it seemed, but also with the provocative bulge of her snuggly, barely veiled, dynamite-packed pussy, which was at the same level as the stranger’s face and just a few inches away.  “What’s your name?” she asked.

     “Bogie,” drawled the stranger.  He ignored the saloon girl’s poignantly flaunted mound, squinted up into the soul in her brown bottomless eyes.  “Nick Bogie.”

     “I’m Philana,” said Philana.  Music began to play again.  Some fool howled.  There was laughter.  And cigarette smoke.  The woman and the man stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

     Then ~

     “Let’s ball, Bogie!” cried Philana like a whip.  Her eyes squinted full of tears.  Her thigh quivered.  The man to whom she had spoken held open his arms.

     She jumped.

     He carried her out the door like a bride.




the short story & song collection

Wild Women In The Borderlands Of My Mind

by rawclyde !



gathered & presented by artificial intelligence


copyright clyde collins 1989, 2010


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sunday afternoon

a train song by rawclyde


Sittin’ on my ass

watching the trains

roll by


Speeding thru space

on a spinning planet

& wondering why


Smeared by a gurl

with a mind a whirl

two thousand miles away


People feeling blue

don’t know what to do

dreaming about yesterday


Oh mr. president

Oh mr. president

hip hip horray


A big man in iran

hit by a missile

gots nothing more to say




a flash


Steppin’ on a banana peel

how do you feel

one second before the crash


A feller tells me

god put you in charge so

you can blow-up everything


This feller don’t vote

he’s kind o’ remote

but rumors are he can sing


Outside the window


a lot o’ blue sky


Long long trains

keep on

rolling by

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