The Levitating Rabbit





To all

the photographers

who capture jackrabbits

& then let them loose

on Cyber Highway:

Thank you!!!


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Sept 11


Cloyd Campfire

Thee atilt guru, who was admired by so many furious folks upon the streets of the Third World lands, slung-shot a rather heavy stone into a distant bedazzling pond.

Davy Crockett reincarnated, sauntering thru the day-room that morning, couldn’t help but note the bewildered look upon the faces of the patriots stretched-out infront of the post-modern campfire plugged into the wall of instant news.

T’was their pond. Two of the tallest skyscrapers around ~ collapsed. Thousands died. And ripples of sorrow, anger, and high-tech vengeance began to move across and beyond the pond. And these fragrant pond water ripples expanded around our ancient space ship ~ Earth.

And then, and thennnnnnn, bombs begun falling all around Osama bin Laden, thee atilt guru of today’s and tomorrow’s yore.

Davy Crockett, yes, reincarnated, who in this budding 21st Century was an unemployed homeless man, somewhat confused by these ricocheting ripples that had slapped upon the shores of his sleep-walking dreams, didn’t know what to do, so he watched the tube & read the paper, and finally kicked a can. The airborne tin smacked Sammy Sidhartha, a Budhist amongst us, up the side of his head.

And Sidhartha replied, “Behind a very valid and pretty pertinent assertion are centuries of cumulative Budhist insight into the relationship between the individual and the cosmos.”

“Yes, yes,” intellectually prodded Crockett. “And that assertion is?”

Sidhartha continued, “It’s just that errors in the realm of religion invite disasters in the external world. For example, embracing one creed rather than another can result in earthquakes and epidemics.”

Crockett scratched his head vigorously. “Sounds like superstition to me.”

“That’s because you’re an occidental oxymoron.” Sidhartha smiled benignly. “Another way of putting it is ~ your smallest remark, your slightest move can have undreamed of consequences.”

“Such as my kicking the can and it accidently hitting you up side of your head?” inserted Crockett.

“Exactly!” punctuated Sidhartha.

“But what about Osama bin Laden?”

“What about him?”

“He’s had quite an effect.”

“And so can you!” concluded Sidhartha. He staggered slightly from the blow of the can, straightened up, and went back to his chores.

Davy was left slightly dazed by this information so generously expelled by his fellow patriot, who was also homeless. The wisdoms exuded by this new found info, slipped like smoke through the mesh of Davy’s brain ~ ’til his initial dazementality transformationed into a brand new day between his ears ~ a clear day in which he could see forever. This broad landscape behind Davy’s eyes, which incidently became more n’ more gooey bright as his triggered intellect rapidly evolved, this broad landscape more n’ more resembled the Sonoran Desert ~ and Davy construed out of a certain memory a newly discovered truth.

Yes! The memory of a coyote in a thick winter coat trotting by Davy’s truck, which was parked by a dry-wash in the middle of a desert no-where one crisp morning, this coyote’s momentary appearance upon the scene, now, many moons later, made Bin Laden’s murderous antics less affecting than ~ than an ant!


Sept 11 Revised


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ghost town


newspaper office

Old Timer Chronicle III

Old Timer Chronicle II

Old Timer Chronicle I


code room





top hat

Steve T. holding a 1 day old longhorn calf



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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 rubs up to me.  Yes, I’m the rabbit.

I discovered her in a history book while living, working, writing 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 2001-2008.  Gotta preserve the democracy, you know.



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Kiss of Democracy Theatre




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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Kiss of Democracy Theatre II



by Cloyd Campfire



“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


belly dancer


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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


by Cloyd Campfire



“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



artwork courtesy of


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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


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Sheena Is Having A Pow Wow!

Sheena’s Teepee

2015 blog


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 Capt’n Chuck Fiddler’s Afghaneeland Sufi Bubble

excerpts from

Afghanistan’s new Illiad






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