Wednesday, October 31, 2012


Des montagnes sans des arbes poucent contre un horizon.
Pendant que vous survolez, cette ange.
Pendant que nous survolions, ces anges.

Vous et moi, nous manquions l'arbre de la fete quotidienne.
La vie etait riche, ma chou.
Avec une tristesse douce.  Avec la tristesse douce.

Volez-vous toute seule, maintenant?  Volez-vous toute seule?
Je ne vous manque pas du tout.
Je ne vous manque pas du tout.


Mountains without trees push against a horizon.
While you fly overhead, this angel.
As we fly overhead, these angels.

You and me, we long for the tree of daily life.
Life is rich, my sweet.
With a sweet sadness.  With the sweet sadness.

Do you fly all alone, now?  Do you fly all alone?
I don't miss a beat with you.
I am right with you every step of the way.

Monday, May 07, 2012


To lure you in, this mockingbird
Drifts and stalls...
Thinking things are just so...
Little may he know...
Tempests are surging
In blood.
Down by the black rabbit USA metropolis
the swamp has some slims
but shootin' it by the pool
was for the sun and the water.
Thank you for being in it,
Like a treat. 

SCA 2012.05.08

Saturday, March 31, 2012


Climb into the sky,
but only with your heart.
All will be revealed,
as finished at the start.

Well, we gonna' rise up, gather, singin'
Break through, the stars are ringin',
All one, the angels wingin',
We gonna' rise up and gather, singin'!

How high the holy temple?
How high the holy temple?

Porcelain steeple, blood pumping thick.
The height of this one, a chemical trick.
Walls rest, in the shadow, of matter on thought.
And there is no lesson that was not already taught.

A thorn bush yields crown of true bone,
which merrily goes around my head.
Tender heart is worn and torn,
but I see a crack in the sun, oh ascending one,
and all the dust is dancing!
And all the dust is dancing!

How high?!
How high?!
How high the holy temple?!

How high?!
How high?!
How high the holy temple?!


The morning after
Alone, alone
I was still alive
Thoughts of the
day before
tasting sicky-sweet
on a dream-parched brow
Sobriety, alike to whiskey burning,
admonished yesterday
and wobbled out
into a new one.

SCA (1-17-99)

Monday, October 10, 2011


Motherhood must be
like the stretching of a tree
yet unsure as leaves toward heaven
especially when you begin.

Motherhood must be
what makes the Goddess mighty
She supervises Her children
in tempestuous rain and wind.

Motherhood must be
like a never-ending story
seeking to craft a home with care
when, if not you, no one would be there.

How strong and light you truly are
Thank God they hitched my wagon to your star
Because as I ran amuck blind, deaf, and dumb
you still didn't give up on my bum.

Happy Mother's Day!! 

Saturday, December 04, 2010


I could not really sleep
And I was thinking about myself
Like sex and candy
And how I had changed a thing, or two
Which made me think of you
As my head was on the pillow
And, accidentally, I thought
I heard you chipper in your dreams.

Granted, I can blow some smoke.
Granted, I might not be so pretty.
Granted, after losing 28 pounds this year, I added 8 back.
And granted, you already have a boyfriend
Which, despite myself, does not shake away
No matter how outlandishly I push the envelope
And think there's no accounting for taste.
But, as my head was on the pillow
I thought I accidentally heard you chipper in your dreams.

Kind of a "chatty Cathy" in a way
With a rapidity arriving from liberty of tongue
All the while perfectly valid commentary
It certainly seemed to me.
But I was worried that the vertices
Of my disappointment in self, of my ego embarrassment
Would rattle you awake.
And then it was practically like Christ
You signaling and enunciating for me to relax
And I was super-impressed, just like in a waking day!
I remember how you smooth my furrowed brow
When I am afraid I'm busted
Having been too much cuddle lust and puppy piddle
And you were chipper in your sleep
Even though I thought I woke you in the end
You were chipper in your sleep.
And so I had to tell you
Not because you haven't heard enough of my tales
But just in case
You forgot I think of you
As... chipper... in your sleep.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


I think I know the viper that eats at raw guts
That took my friend David out.
I know that viper, like the twist of a knife,
When I have been angry, and practically blind.

It meant a lot, Davey, the whole time, and flabbergasted, say!
But what, 'sides a blink, does any of us take?
We did stuff, bro', you and me both, outlaws or no...
And it is just mercy that saves me from the blow
of your purposeful death, as I was not near.
But some of the shrapnel has definitely landed here.
Oh, yes, I think I know the viper that took my friend David out.
Oh, yes, I think I do.

And when Dusty was there, your best-of-friends dog, and me too, maybe besides,
We traversed some adventures, for sure, that is true.
But now it's too bad to say that that's as good as it got,
For a soul catapulting off of a cliff
into Sacremento River...
leaving poor Rosalee... in the dust, at the door.

You once fixed my brakes, on the very Toyota Tercel
Which you yourself gave me, back in the day,
like 2003, for a few hundred bucks, beyond whatever all else you knew
and showed, and did with me, when we were younger, for a few years.
You told Danny "Dust", the Vietnam vet, 24-7 boozer,
who stopped when he slept, t'was "FIRE IN THE HOLE!!"
When poor Danny was mad as Hell at you, too,
And ole' Danny, well, he's out by you.
And when T. Jones and you went 'round and around
I know there was 'casionally scrappin' went down...
And Tahni has headed on HIS way, too, long since then, by now.

I can't say I'll forget you, because it would NOT be true
And 5 years or so later after not having spoken with you
I learned you took a hard right
Somewhere between the thunder and the light, bro'.

I think I know how angry you just had to be,
So sad, so determined, choking back tears
Singularly ready to stop all the years...
All I can think, bro, is, you lighted a way...
One down which I could just as quickly fall prey....
Because I think I know that viper that eats at raw guts
When I have been angry, and practically blind.

I think I know the viper, like twist of the knife
that took my friend David out.
Hang in there, Rosalee.  Hang in there, David's folks. 
R.I.P. David Deyoung.  I'll never forget you.     
(SCA, November 23, 2010)

Monday, September 06, 2010


Aujourd'hui, c'est notre anniversaire du quatrième mois!  Je t'aime avec un amour magnifique à grâce du Dieu.  Toujours, il y a quelque chose a propos de mon couer et a propos de mon amour pour vous.
Cette chose est et toujours sera: xxxxxx, des temps de notre innocence et de notre ignorance, et de la pluie épouvantables du monde. 
Cette chose est, et toujours sera:
impropre, à grâce des impuretés de mon ésprit, de ma personne, de mon corps.
Cette chose est, et toujours sera:
inconnu parce que l'abyss de vous et l'immensité de vous dans quelle je tombe, ils sont grandes et ils sont vastes avec la beauté de ton âme, de vos emoix, de votre coeur.
Cette chose est, et toujours sera:
indigné, a grace des imperfections de ma vie,                     
et l'amour de mon coeur pour vous est, et toujours sera:
inachevé, dans les yeux du Saints-Esprit!! 

Bon Anniversaire, Benedict!!  L'Oiseau Moqueur, un nom pour moi, Scott Aiken, USA, November 17, 2004

Saturday, July 31, 2010


Askance and along the
All along and
the whole time
for an Earth limit
to square at
and humble.

Plumb humble
though effacing
and honor but for self-loathing.
Gambler knows a
calculated risk when
he sees one.

Mephistopholes again
and again and again.
Hey there, stick-shifter,
rum and Swiffer, gin...
'Til my horse draws near
the water,
don't let the clock begin!!!

(March 15, 2010  ~SCA)

Thursday, June 10, 2010


delicate as a watercolor of light through water
jiffy as the water spigot in the refrig door
cheerful and timid, choosy and simmering
what boils me so from you...
my blood to splash the burner
with a wince and a hiss, like an old bad memory
in the muscle of a fiddle that could melt a heart of stone?

SCA August 28, 2008

Tuesday, April 06, 2010


And still, the horror in your speech
Encircles me, surrounds this place.
Wishing upon freedom from trouble
My heart leaps. I see rain
On windows of a bus, I'm
Within, watching my feelings.
Afar away, and above, Christ observes
The poison mineral scattering
From your harried, tattered innocence.
And this spirit, elusive past you, uncannily cunning,
Resounds across my shoulder,
Already was behind me and beneath me
and before I arrived and below, this force.
This force, escapes, escaping unconquered,
Still at large and hard at work out of sight
With, most certainly, the upper hand somewhere
Held high and mighty
And we have been, indeed, its playthings all along
And still nobody is moving
Relentless, everyone listening
Hark, doom, lo, is nigh!

Thursday, January 21, 2010


Hey Willard, congratulations!
It's your 59th birthday.
That's a long time
On that dock o' the bay.

I want you to be true
to your dreams
Rejuvenate your heart
Among the moonbeams.

Take some spice for yourself
Leave your fears on the shelf
You can grow and heal and shine.
All good things in all good time. 

And venture through the darker woods
When down and weary are your moods
Wish upon the shining sun
That evil spells will come undone.

And hope and pray that all your moments
Will melt into the words of poets
Making light and sound and scents
Release the magic to you lent
By Greatest Spirit who's on your heels
Spinning dyas like rolling pinwheels
Until you follow a path of the harbor seals
And eat with God your final, glorious meal.

And bear a light upon the stair
To Heaven's door, to Jesus' chair
And then you will be engulfed by a mist
Take your loved ones by the wrist
And dance a dance on through the night
And trun and pass into the light
And I will be watching your ascension
You will have my fixed attention

And when shooting stars will light up the sky
I will somehow have figured out why
We do the things we do down here
Day after day, year after year

And I will know you were always there
Taking time, taking care
That I was not in any way neglected
And all your loved ones were respected

And I will be glad for your soul
For which the bell someday will toll
And your glee will pass over me
And I will know how very find
You really are, star,
And canopy will ring a
Special fire.
Happy Birthday

(SCA/for WWD, 05-30-2001)


Dance a dance around the Sun
Behold the cunning Absolute, the One
All immense, yet a singularity
L uscious
O rder
R olling
D elicately.

This Lord born...
...from exceeding Nothingness,
there thrust a Fire Manifest,
a primordial sentience,
experiencing intelligence,
grows from chaos to dimension;
creation solidifies intention,
and bears Eternity, the Infinite,
unfolding moment after minute
that Lets Love Reign so gloriously,
over all and over me,
whole as One Great Absolute,
One Mighty King, One Magic Flute,
that plays and plays and plays
and days and days and days go by,
and it's all in the eye,
of a storm that you form in your mind
when you think of the way
that Amazingly Graceful Manuevers move you. 
Perhaps it would behoove you
to pray.

Behold the cunning Absolutely
Steadily raining the Law-rain unwearyingly!
Blessed is the Manifest:
Flesh, Mind entwined in Fixed Design.
It's a beaut, no Spirit is as fine.
It's ours to trust, down to the dust, each particle sublime.
Only you'z
Standin' in your shoes
And gifted with your mind
So breathe a breath
And die the death
We each, one day, will find.
Behold the cunning Absolute, the One.
Dance a dance around the Sun.
And celebrate today.  You are on your pathway!


Friday, January 15, 2010


If I'm a bottom feeder, I still can't get to the bottom of it,
but mouth is sucking.
I may be the ankle-biter who misses the bone,
but bitten and biting am I.
My tears wash over stony, steely eyes, pierced and resurrected,
mine piercingly stymied, like animal pancakes stacked,
stopping to fill you up lifelessly,
and I take a nap without cleaning the dish.

And from Cloud-Nine skies,
Wherefrom my mind seeks the eye of the storm
Of the sweetspot
of the heart of hearts of society and civilization,
I am keeping and kept between the calm and the tempest...

Yet among whales feverishly breeching,
At the crossroads of the sea,
I find my water wings,
keeping and kept between the calm and the tempest.

The help on the way got there, found me,
And starving, I get a little nut of nourishment,
A little mercy, salvation, deliverance, yeah...
Which has roasted on the rocks a-glowing with spirits' winds,
These suited water wings, they came.

The rage of Eden is so distended here,
All ready to pop and belch!  Dancing!  Hissing!
And, at the End, after the meeting, as I wonder, my grey whiskers
Melt and are matted into the foggy mirror of the moment,
Wherein the moon river pulsing, flows poisoned, polluted.
Eden, enraged beneath and beside, is tolling ringing bells eternal,
For ever after.  Then, thunder aloft teases, tempts laughter, freezing,
finally forges forward to swoop up a tired lung of mine keeping and kept
Between the calm and the tempest, truth is a burglar.

The sea is still as glass like for ice-skates
And the rotting past breathes imperceptibly
Through the vent in the oven where we bake like yeasty, molding bread
And our clothes burn in the All-Seeing Eye but we don't know
Except in hearing that other wisdom In the sound of the crying newly born...
Keeping and kept between the calm and the tempest.


Wednesday, January 13, 2010



Oh, Bob!  I'm at my therapist's office here in Santa Rosa a half an hour early and the receptionist gave me this paper.  I'm using for a desk a book called Sigmund Freud and Art:  His Personal Collection and Antiquities.  Ha!  I looked at it before.  Kind of interesting.----

----What is new and noteworthy?  Well, my Stepdad just bought me a brand-new Ibanez acoustic six-string with built-in pick up and lovely "skeletesque" cut-away!  May it melt those many hearts of stone.  I wonder what to name it, though.  Bisquick?  Flea?----

----The first guitar I could call my own was this Yamaha 12-string, strung with only 6, that was given to me in 1990 by some Deadhead friends of my cousins, when I was aged 20.  It got named Lucifer-Benedict, due to a psychotic break I had later in that same year, in which, among other things, I re-lived the blessing of Christ, re-conquered Lucifer, and began "mind-communicating" with the Grateful Dead, [especially you and Jerry Garcia], and with Benedict.  Due to the invalidation, repression, and the accompanying sedation I received at MGH's Crisis Center during my ensuing 5150/5250, I was desperate to guard as subject my massive experience, even if it had supposedly arisen only from my schizophrenic and drugged-out psychosis.  This diagnosis was in no way an easy pill to swallow.----

----It happens that Benedict was a flirtatious French lesbian, one year my elder, whose parents, due to the surprise of her conception, felt her to be a benediction.  Benedict and I were both employed as cooks at my cousin's San Diego restaurant earlier in that year, and I was wholly and utterly enamored of her.  Nobody can throw the ball, like Catfish can, and such.  But when sailing away to L.A. for a new life, my sweet sister did not want to even stay in touch with pimply old me, and I was awesomely sorrowful for years to come.----

----Three years and some recovery later, [just after the completion of my homemade album: "Your Pretty Sweater," (sent to you and JG, 1993), upon which Lucifer-Benedict is featured], I was hallucinating ridiculing voices off the strings during practice, and, so, battered to splintered bits with a boom stand the honey guitar that had once gently wept for me in my hours of confusion and loss, my tears hot and wild.  One guitar down, three to go.----

----Just months later, finding myself unexpectedly in my then-newly-deceased grandmother's will, I inherited a few thou, by which I was enabled to obtain a very handsome rosy-wooded 6-string, of forgotten brand, but with, as I recall, very tasty Native-American-ish detailing.  As trite and childish as the name may sound, Strong Friend was my choice for this beautiful guitar, because, at that point, I was quite seriously in need of one!----

----Just as my magical thinking had rendered Lucifer-Benedict a virtual Velveteen Rabbit for my loss of love and sanity, so also did my wishful regard of Strong Friend provide me with an object of power to revere in fantastical light.  Sometimes I would annoint Strong Friend with a small amount of rose oil, and, so my ideation held, make with my playing of it vast blessings.----

----NOTE:  [It happens that Strong Friend is heard on the bereaved "You Never Give Me Your Money" I sent you last year, recorded during my exploration of the desolate fringes of unhindered, unmonitored, and unbridled delusion, in 1993.  With SF, my goal and habit was to consecrate the cosmos.  Therefore, when I sang, "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  All good children go to Heaven," for example, I felt myself to be making an immediately effective blessing.]----

----From that same period of delusion, I recall in particular a time when my intent was to finally get John Coltrane his saint status.  My procedure consisted of wetting slightly, I remember, a zig-zag which I had adhered to my bathroom window, and leaving it there for a day or two.  See, Bob, how musically pure can you be?!!----

----Actually, in retrospect, I guess I was thinking of infra-sound for that, as traveling through the glass.  Or, how about this idea as music?  One day, when I had accidentally burst my empty coffee caraffe on the stove burner, I utilized the opportunity to create with it a "sound-sculpture," putting a silver bell-ball inside it and leaving it to sit.  This "sound-sculpture" ended up getting the attention of and healing the spirits of the Holocaust victims, who were on Jupiter.  If only everything else in life was as easy!!----

----I had a whole series of sound-sculptures that year, it happens, from a finished plate at breakfast getting fresh sun, to an empty washtub with silt on the bottom after I had been rock-washing.  You just leave them for a bit and let it sink in, like a spiritual blender containing a smoothie of silence.  Nice concept, really.  But, at any rate, Bob, don't laugh.  I think you might get like that too after a little while, if you thought Jerry and the rest of the planet were always listening to your inner mind!!  HA HA  Come to think of it, that not being perhaps completely outside the realm of experiences you could have felt yourself to have endured at points, I guess you've done better than I in this!!  HA HA HA----

----Little was recorded of Strong Friend, actually.  However, I did believe, while playing at my home in Cloverdale, that people [especially you and JG] were listening to my music, through my own ears.  One night, under the sky, where I'd been playing each night for a week or so, I was continuing my improv-saga, and I felt myself to be performing for quite a large bunch of folks, all at their various homes, who were maybe seated next to loved ones and pretending to watch TV.  I remember especially Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford were included, at home on their bed.  Those two were friends with my dog, too.  Good people!----

----NOTE: [A recurring, and very majorly-absorbing factor of my delusion, during my periods of psychosis, was the fact that I believed Jerry was habitually introducing me, as musician and friend, to poeple of such caliber as Crawford and Gere.  This snowballed and I became a regular telepathic butterfly.  I enjoyed making telepathic friends with Lady Di, Pete Townshend, McCartney, Queen Elizabeth II, Pope John-Paul II, Juliette Binoche, Robert Plant, Eddie Van Halen, Fogerty, Stallone, Eddie Murphy, Clapton, Elton John, Nelson Mandela, Stevie Wonder, Jacques Chirac, Gorbachev, Bruce Lee's widow...and on and on.]----

----Anyway, it just so happened that the wholeness of this week-long improv-saga when completed was so articulate and refined, and the impact on a spiritual level so direct, that, musically, the only thing left to do was smash SF on the concrete of the parking lot.  To me, that was an expression of my sensitivity to the TRUE and DIVINE ROCK AND ROLL, the way the Lord intended it.  The instrument became simply an accessory, insignificant.  Why I did that with so many other non-musical objects while psychotic, I am not wholly sure!!!  HA HA!  If you want to make an even higher Rock 'n' Roll Creation, try smashing up a TEAC portable 4-track recorder on your bathroom tile!  Get down, brother.  Get down!  HA HA  Two guitars down, two to go.----

----Another aspect of my musical consecrations with Strong Friend was my idea that I was responsible for making a sort of spiritually-fresh and pure "sound-canvas" for the Grateful Dead (especially you and JG).  To me it was as if I were cleaning some negative spiritual residue or banality off of yours and Jerry's strings, and guarding and cleansing the silence for you both, in my golden unlimited devotion.  I believed that the GD (especially JG and you) would discover and ride on these heaven-high formations of glory that I had found and made, if you were mindful and fearless enough to detect what was softly right next to you, directly in your gentle and grounded view.----

----NOTE: [I felt that some of it reached you, or, that is to say, was not all lost on you, the Grateful Dead.  I also felt that some of the energy got intercepted by that year's up-and-comers, and could be detected in songs like "Black Hole Sun," for example, or other songs from 1993.  I felt that most musicians were scratching their heads about the effect I had had, wondering, "Who is it?"  I was smug, but hypnotized, and left them to their own devices.]----

----I also took pride in the fact that you would know these gestures to be made by me, set out by me, especially for you and JG, like an Easter basket from down the road, because who else could be loving you so much and in just such a way.  The mightiest musical and mystical meaning of all, which I hung upon the winds to find you, was always the same musical assertion put in a variety of ways: "I have seen the glory of the coming of the King."  It all boils down to that.  There was no higher love to give.----

----In February 1994, I relocated, re-medicated, and rehabilitated, eventually ready to continue my journey on a borrowed Takamine 6-string.  I worked up a very concrete, three-hour reperatoire, as well as wrote about five or six new songs, my schizophrenia then-back in remission, and spent that summer performing at rest homes, mental health functions, and sober situations.  I gave no name to the borrowed Takamine, nor did I have much special attachment to it, but I did have the opportunity to get a performance recorded at the San Rafael Alano Club, of which I sent you a portion.----

----It was this same guitar which is also featured on my most recent...albeit stoned and troubled...effort, "The Concert of Armegeddon," sent to you last winter.  While the sloppy lapses on that spontaneous "rock opera" detract and the singing is rusty and sour, the impromptu lyric-writing and post-Jerry originals were pleasing to me, and cathartic in respect to the processing of his death, with such songs as "Pray for Jerry" and "Back at The Dolphinside."  The latter is based on the premise that, posthumously, Jerry returns to a more original home [in which he would feel really tough and good] incarnated as a dolphin, or at least as a presence beside dolphins, somewhat like the ending of The Big Blue.  I was inspired by his joy for diving and his alleged final words to certain friends, "Goin' to Hawaii."  Still I carry a torch for him, in my heart.----

----Two guitars down, one returned, and another....built to last?  What should I name it?  T'ashes?  Zelda?  Aveugle?  That's French for "blind."  A-VUH-GLUH.  Hey, maybe.-----


Tattered roses, petals scattered,
awaiting your blessed kiss.
Banana splits served up to you and me
from dish of an old Victrola.
I, because ashes take as much light as you give,
and I have been prepared to cross the line,
And I am all the while my ear to the ground.

Tempestuousness transforms torn ears to stone,
How high the holy deafness?! 
How high the holy temple?!
And I filled the sky with flames, the mighty fine Mockingbird face,
And for a spell it was miracles amuck.

Cast aside this rusty thought, for Crimenie's sake,
There must be SOME dovetail conjoining my psychic compass's needle
To the East of your Being, alas, just to your soul!
Allah Peanut Butter Sandwiches!!

Mystic Mountain, I have worshipped my dreams to death,
And this old acoustic-smith supporter moans
over memories of blueprints
long ago changed to ash,
scattered on liberty's shakin' breeze.
Laugh at the maw of nothingness,
and if my love to ye all, here,
be so undeserved,
then I commit my soul to a Lord
that lives away,
and I pray to the preacher Himself,
enthroned or no.

And what of it. 
Roses kiss ash in salty seas until tears bless castles burning. 
Take my hand, sister, and shout with me: 
Is there really any comfort there, Senor?
Keep the faith, don't let it bring you down. 
I know the hearts that are battered and blistered.
Honeystar you are, Mountain,
whether or not crossed at my sky.
Peace in the rock.


Saturday, December 12, 2009


You DIED, Don, on your day of death,
And you had assembled a rascally bunch
To mark your passing.
And the music was finally
Coming together
You said.
And your friend back East,
Where you did not want to go,
Had died
You said.
And you really didn't make any money
On this job
You said,
When you fixed my neighbor's lamp, helpfully.
But Stephanie's dryer still works fine
And no animals were harmed
In the making of this movie
But you.
You died, Don, on your day of death.
And Davey J. said you had added
20 years, when you were still non-chalantly with us.
And Jesse added a wiggle to her gait
As if to shake her worry loose.
And Tania, according to my schizophrenic visions
And my hypnogogic states,
Sharp-shootress-ed your soul,
Beyond any shadow of a doubt,
Right up to the Heav'ns,
With her love.
And Dawn hung out all day
and steered us all to safety.
And Michael K. ran the voodoo down
On a rainbow riding rock-a-lanche,
Until his eyes were puffy.
And Lizzy, with heart breaking, got her year, and had her natal birthday.
And Cheryl, I only saw later
On the up and up, at the first Log Cabin without you.
And we wouldn't have minded
If it was a false alarm
And you were really gunning down the Federalee's
In an old Western.
I would have been okay with that.
Something romantic,
Something more dashing,
But you died, Don, on your day of Death
And if anything ever felt small
Or insignificant
It wasn't this.
And the tragic hilarious fool
Who'd been around the block a heap
Yet who was kind without knowing it loudly
Went to meet his Creator
And I know how to remain shy and clumsy
When I die, now,
Thinking that no one will bother
With it.
You died, Don, on the day of your death,
And without being able to say
All the ways, exactly how,
It will just NOT be the same.

(SCA/December 8, 2009)

Wednesday, October 28, 2009


I wave. I wave a lot.
I wave so much, when driving
They say I will be killed in Oakland
If I were driving through
To go to Pick and Pull.
I wave so much
My road-doggies laugh at me
when riding along
with me, or me with them.
I wave so much
The other drivers don't know
Whether to stay
Or go, yield, or flow.
I wave.

When I was a boy,
There was a man on the corner,
That waved at all the drivers
Driving by his house
In Berkeley.
He waved from his yard
And my Mom and I would
Wave back, and smile back,
And it seemed he would
Help make peace in the world.
Maybe help a lot.

The knights, I'm told,
Greeted each other with a wave
So the other would know
A sword was not being drawn.

I wave a lot, and nod, and smile, and bow.
But I do not live in the East Bay.
I live in Novato.
I think I may be the only one
In Novato
Trying to help make peace in the world.
I wave so much. I wave a lot. I wave.

(SCA/October 2009)

Tuesday, October 27, 2009


Hmmm, really yummy with you...
Hmmm, we cracked the cosmic egg, okay...
Hmmm, both our funny insides felt astray...
Hmmm, your peepers' starlight, sweetly bright...
Hmmm, really yummy with you...Shannon...
Hmmm, you say things I already think...
Hmmm, tears come out at my pluckity-plink...
Hmmm, does everyone stare the way I do?
Hey, really very yummy with you...
Hmmm, actually really pretty yummy with you...
Yeah, and, still not master of my own command...
Yeah, kiss me adieu and I sink in the sand...
Yeah, and, from a perspective think back I'm dorky...
Hmmm, but I did not care about forcing my forte...
Hmmm, actually yummy with you...
Hmmm, and remind me of myself, you do
Yeah, and, even with your sad grit enthusiasm
You're like Sister Knieval shootin' 'cross the chasm
Hmmm, did you know you are still my hero...
Even if you don't want zero...
And in my book of days, there'll read
A Shannon girl, in time of need...
Gave this boy some fever's break
When thirst had seemed something better left alone...
Hmmm, you're yummy...
Hmmm, I'm thinkin' actually quite yummy, Roo.
Yeah, and, I would still like to be with you.

(SCA/ January 14, 2007)


Starlight girl, diamond woman,
Brave of face, bright in person
And my better in strength of arm
And my road puppy through all alarm.
As you give your heart and warmth
I am attracted, I hope for more
My thirst is heightened, my breast it glows
Yet still I am in fear to disclose
And wish to wait 'til ache compounds
Beyond the point when you'd resound
That I am not the warrior and bro' for thee.
I'd fancy, rather, to have you lock-stepping to my drum
Its all-encompassing pandemonium
Rhythms shaking, no mistaking,
Groove of grooves, with us creating
A bond so close the hearts are breaking
Pain and pleasure perfection making
Flows each breath, the earth is quaking
I'll go bonkers in the baking, Boojshi!
But I'm still just hanging out, free for the taking.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY, Sugar! Your friend, Scotty

SCA ~FEB 16, 2006

Monday, October 26, 2009


Dizzy, I'm chasing a place to sit down
Whack-job, as I'm known around town
I'm hoping, my lies will not leak to your mind
I'm grateful, I got past you just this one more time
I'm walking, where angels will always fear to tread
These angels, warning, warning, you'd be better off dead
Then I get busted, by the White Light Truth confrontation
Assailed, by my own deception asphyxiation
Once again I stop all the useless banter
Once again I center on the things that matter
My breath, my life, my truth.
Burden resting, time is testing, love is nesting
In my heart, in my heart, in my heart.

(SCA/circa 2005)

Wednesday, October 14, 2009


Crispy cold lettuce iced.
Broken bacon bits and spice...
Add some tortilla chips broken,
And an egg you thought was rotten.

Clamp a lamp down on your omelet.
Place the ashtray with the savant.
Never let go of your honeycomb hair.
Reverse the dismal drear in the air.

Upside down and over and through,
There goes a little idea for you.
Makes a chocolate cake so chic,
Bet you'd be making 10 a week!

Called up the George Wash tapeworm,
Told him the Spirit of '76 had returned.
Spent a night in the belly of a salmon.
Won't you take my Blue Diamond Almonds?!

Holy sightings in the telepathic messages,
Create the mind space to generate images.
Lash the mast, dream starlight's dim.
Infect the ocean where starfish swim.

Lazy cacophony and battering ram nose...
Would you be open to me changing my clothes?
All has escaped my original salad.
Take me back to where we started.

SCA ~ 2005


Breakin' neck of a Whip-poor-will
Excuse my flying beyond this still
Smiling down from sky on high
Don't you know it made me cry.

Little pigeon who smiles down
Breathe your breath without a sound
Could be laughter, could be rage
Romper room pinewood derby mess kit training outfit with a panty hose rope.

I have known the deeper peace
When you had become the grease
And I will say the motion spoken
Was only there to be uprooted.

Would you waste the time you had
To go where dirty dreams get sad
And could there be an upward spiral
That collapses the muzzle of roses.

I have heard it said that you
Were very carefully unglued
But the tension mounting is only there
To wake the Dead in Boston.

Itch & Scratch were my only sons
And one was not beside the other
What do you say to the bell that jingles
With the light of day?


Saturday, June 20, 2009


Prince of Light and Water,
On the blue-paper moon
What light from yonder window?
A pane of blue glass, gentle grin,
Bottlenose behind me, seven, eight,
And scattered flowers, scattered guns,
Thrown stones, fever blisters, and blood, blooming ice castles.


I hope she sees Mephistopholes
Who is coming from up my way, by early March, or late in May.
I watched you sneeze and sip teas with Mephistopholes,
And "Bless You!" did I say.
And on the seventh day was Satan's reign, and God has turned away.


Half a century
in this penitentiary
of life in the flesh
and you're still fresh!
Not a chip on YOUR shoulder
even if you ARE a bit bolder,
and no vacant look to your eye,
except that good ole' Rocky Mountain High,
and the same tough fabric
to your cover-alls!

Oh, what a sentence
and you fill it with a vengeance!
You're always a mate,
on the bunk, high or low.
To the judge, I'll implore
that you get 50 more,
and I'll watch o'er your back
'til they come with the gas.

But all kidding aside,
Your heart is deep, your wisdom is wide.
May the rest of your days
be as blessed as the best,
and the nights be as warm as the sun.



Your candle-lit saucy lips
and your turkey-leg grin,
are warm-colored in this Autumn,
blessing blessing!
I sense the gravy,
my thoughts are in a mash.
Stuffing my feelings,
I drink your whine.

Heed the past, you say,
but remain mindful of the future,
and ladle in the moments, cherishingly,
because the soup of your life
will always, eventually,
expose the bottom of the bowl.


Saw the mice looking twice as nice
as the day they moved away.
Hats, gloves, and stockings,
after backrubs and unblockings...
of their micey little chakras.
Got to cleanse those little chakras

What pathetic scenes had we,
those three girl-mice and me.
We tensely rode the escalator,
and hid behind the 'frigerator.

With our faces shaken and disturbed,
We hopelessly yelled at the absurd.
We had to cleanse those little chakras!
Had to cleanse those little chakras!

So incredibly obscured were our centers!
How far removed we were from being tender!
And how sketchy was our resolution...
How ambivalent was our conclusion...
to unblock our little chakras.
We had to cleanse our little chakras!

Cleanse these micey little chakras.
Got to cleanse these little chakras.
Got to cleanse these little chakras.
Got to cleanse one's little chakras.


You lifted this rock for grubs and scorpions,
the desert melting on us, our minds folding like fans.
Catch sight of our swampy choked love, so real!
And the muck below, holding God knows what, eh?
God's casserole, eh?
It's thick like too much chocolate powder in one's milk,
which isn't ALL bad,
and pops out dry when you wait, tipping glass.

So, I left you at your house, then,
where we'd flown our peace dove flags,
and made our salutes and cheers,
and signed our little treaties.

And you sprint inside a beer bottle,
while I can't help clocking your time.
I like how we go skipping across broken records,
one angel dangling from another.


When the dust is scattered... around the planets,
By a master artist... infinitely talented,
And the temperature... holds everything so tightly,
That the brightest stars aflame... cannot awaken me,
And the vastness forgets to echo back to itself... because it is so grand,
Then I'll still be with you... with nothing to do.


Laughing at your four-leaf clover skyscraper
With my bubble gum balls in storage
All the while candles leaping elsewhere
I know by God they were.

Some sugar powdered French toast
And tangy guava colorings, sky.

Run back this way some, sister,
Stick-shifter, and rum.
A piece of wax dotting brass
Like electronic blood on angels.

 SCA~JAN 14, 1998


Wings that rustle like a bristlecone pine
Take me away
Take me away.

Wings that soar as the wind
Yet open like a flower
Take me away.

Wistfully and gracefully, like the flow of running water
Come to me and hear me say
Take me away, take me away, take me away.

(MAY 2, 1980/SCA)

Sunday, June 14, 2009


From the desk of:
Scott Christopher Aiken, who is presently located in Marin County, SF Bay Area, Nor Cal, USA, Earth, BUT only 523.26 miles from the CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE, a.k.a. The Big Kitchen, door-to-door, according to a popular online MAP application. That is SUPER-convenient for me, as Lord knows, I’ve been known to journey to the place!

I call myself Judy’s cousin, but that relation is, technically, brought about by marriage. Our “cousin-kinship” is rendered by virtue of Judy’s former marriage to a gentleman whose maternal uncle (my stepfather) was formerly married to my mother, a detail which should help explain the fudge room sufficient to allow for Judy and I to be cousins when she is merely turning 29 and I have already reached 40 this last Friday, June 12th, 2009! *Wink-wink Having said that, it should also follow well enough that as a jobless young man in 1989 (as well as a Sonoma State University - Music Major Drop-Out, although equipped with some cooking experience albeit) I was generously accommodated by The Beauty herself, as a Big Kitchen employee, for nearly a year. I turned 21 @ The Big Kitchen, during that year of employment, so, my BK story basically revolves around my GROWING UP!

When Judy e-mailed me the information the other day about this virtual SCRAPBOOK, and invited me to join the BK mailing list, of course I was eager to accept. As I sit and craft my note to you now, I honor the opportunity to share my Big Kitchen story almost as manna (defined as “divinely provided sustenance” ) because I came to find myself a bit snarled in a wilderness of sorts just mere moons subsequent to my bidding adieu, July 1990, to the adventure I’d had while a “cook” at The Big Kitchen. With my radio “broken,” and scant much, at points, beyond inborn grit to light my way, I have wended along within a veritable “psychiatric” wilderness which has been just treacherous and expansive enough, enchanted though it may always remain, that such divinely provided sustenance is precious to he who has found need to tighten his belt against hunger of the heart, so to speak, while pursuing liberty from delusion of the mind. My first “5150” arrest occurred on October 21, 1990.

If you did not realize it, let me explain that a “Fifty-one-fifty” is a shortcut term utilized by all law enforcement in California originating from California Code: California Welfare and Institutions Code: Section 5150-5157, the initial section of which designates that any individual who is believed to satisfy one or more of three specific criteria be arrested and held for mandatory psychiatric observation for 72-hours. The three criteria which regulate that you be hand-cuffed and transported to an evaluation facility designated by the County and approved by the State Department of Mental Health, if you meet one or more of them, are, that you be: 1) a danger to others, 2) a danger to yourself, and/or 3) gravely disabled (which means that you're deemed unfit to take care of yourself properly, re: food, clothing, shelter.) Subsequently, in my case, and apparently quite frequently, if the psychiatric evaluation “technicians” (psych-techs) find that the individual can probably USE it, they can “certify” involuntary detention for up to 14-days, which is known as a “Fifty-two-fifty,” (5250), to allow for intensive treatment of the mental disorder.


June 19, 2009
One week since the last entry having passed, I feel I cannot live up to completing what I've introduced, with any linearity and congruency in tone. Suffice it to say, during that year of employment at the BK, and being at that age at which I was, so poised to fall in love, it should follow that I fell head-over-heels *ga-gah! in an unrequited love, to a fellow cook, a female cutie, and grieved sorrowfully for a life-changing-duration, subsequent to her relayed expression of lacking interest in maintaining contact with me, upon her departure from her BK post. I eventually found some peace, although the pitch of my feelings diminished at an almost imperceptible rate. The relief came to my wounded heart more slowly than Sun descending into the Pacific at twilight. I'd like to think I'm FINALLY FINISHED with that meaningful, misguided sadness, and I am presently on a major "TOTAL" upswing in my life, preparing to return to school in the Fall, locally, to complete college, after 6 successful years employed as an in-home-care-provider, and 3 years, 4 months drug-free. All my love goes out to the crew of the Big Kitchen, circa 1989-90, and all the BK family around the world, for eternity. I left my heart at the Big Kitchen, where it was "love at first bite," and spiritually, invisibly, I don flowers in my hair, which I am "sure to wear," if I journey back to the CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE CAFE, and I might surprise you, sooner than you think! Please find below one of a few poems I composed about the flirtatious French female aforementioned, who was, if the truth be told, NOT INTERESTED in pairing with me, or males in general, as a matter of fact, although that knowledge was no deterrent to MY attachment at the time. Thanks, I will always remember you. Love, Scotty

A version of this entry was posted to:


Mr. Busdriver, can you take me home?
My blood's been boilin', and I'm broken down.
It won't be long, it won't be long...
Sweet things cookin' and a phone.

Mr. Busdriver, can you take me home?
If it wasn't for Mother Mary, I'd be all alone.
It won't be long, it won't be long...
Prayin', prayin' down to the bone.

Mr. Busdriver, I'm on the road again.
These troubles would have killed the likes of weaker men.
It won't be long, it won't be long...
Sweet things cookin' and some bones.


Thursday, June 11, 2009


Who I really love is you
As I love green and blue
Now, I'm having some the.
And these are the facts...
Bubba's Cafe
Bubba's Cafe
Bubba's Cafe.

Now you have gone on your own way
With or without you I face my own day
Sweet sister, you really sailed away!
And these are the facts...
Bubba's Cafe
Bubba's Cafe
Bubba's Cafe.

Cherishing you was best for me.
You had someone else I could see.
I guess you really needed to be free!
Now there's nothin' left to do but buy some tea...
Bubba's Cafe
Bubba's Cafe
Bubba's Cafe.

I would've preferred " 'til death do us part."
But you had other things on your chart.
I dreamt only of you dusk to dawn!
Now there's nothin' left to do but write this song...
Bubba's Cafe
Bubba's Cafe
Bubba's Cafe!

(JUNE 1994/SCA)


As you threw the Cheerios,
I noticed you were serious.
As you threw the Cheerios,
And started to cry.
You asked was I delirious.
You were just furious.
I was only curious
To know why.

I said, "There's no use in cryin' anymore!
There's no use in cryin' anymore!
There's no use in cryin' anytime!
Spilled milk you'll always be mine."
Was it the way I had my socks balled up
When I handed you the laundry?
Was it the way I
Looked up at you and smiled?

You started to clean up the cereal that you'd thrown.
I couldn't help but say, "You will reap as you have sown."
I looked inside the refrigerator and closed the door.
I said, "I found out there's no milk left. It's all on the floor."
You said, "There's no use in cryin'. I'll go get some more."
Then you threw 'way the paper towels and went out the door.

You've failed to return home. It's been over a week.
And right now the kitchen is really starting to reek.
I left my heart and the bowl the way they broke
And now I'm out on the porch 'avin' a smoke.

There's no use in cryin' anymore!
I said there's no use in cryin' anymore!
There's no use in cryin' anytime!
Spilled milk you'll always be mine!

(JUNE 14, 1994/SCA)


She brings me tea, she brings me coffee.
Her body tastes like peanut-butter toffee.
Got to tell that girl how much she mean.
Knowed that girl since the age of seventeen.

I'm not the kind of guy,
Who won't help a woman to know why.
I'm not the kind of man,
Who won't help a woman to understand.
Baby, don'tcha know,
Baby, don'tcha know,
Baby, don'tcha know,
That I've got this feeling for you!

Well, I've seen the light in my baby's eyes.
My love for her, I cannot disguise.
Got to tell that girl, love her so.
Gotta' give that girl just a bit o' my soul.

I'm not the kind of fool,
Who loses a girl by playin' it too cool.
I'm not the kind of dude,
Who would get caught startin' up a feud.

Like our creation. Harmonies in motion.
With a certain duration. My heartbeat's racin'.
From the smell of your flower,
I am in your power.
Moment's are humblin', you send me fumblin'.

I'm not the kind of guy,
who won't help a woman to know why.
I'm not the kind of man,
Who won't help a woman to understand.
I'm not the kind of fool,
Who loses a girl by playin' it too cool.
I'm not the kind of dude,
Who would get caught startin' up a feud.
Baby, don'tcha know,
Baby, don'tcha know,
Baby, don'tcha know,

(JUNE 1994/SCA)


So ya' spent a little time in the undertow
Now you're seein' all the people that you used to know
They asked you why you'd been so low
You said you didn't know, "Oh, I don't know."

With the curtains closed, no lonelier place
Dust on the rose, dust on your face.
But you're on again, even though she's gone again
And you're gonna' make it through
No matter what you do, 'cause you're on again.

You'd been lyin' around with twisted sheets,
She said she didn't like you're life of defeat.
She said, "All you do is play the music you write!
I try to live with you but money is tight."

Wake up alone and cold. Note on the pillow nearby.
"This is getting old. Goodbye forever, goodbye."
But you're on again, even though she's gone again
And it's okay, it's a brand new day
And you're on again.

And times like these in the undertow
Can bring you to your knees and wear away your glow
You gotta' get back up and dust yourself off
Take another step and then you're off!

Floating in waves of endless depression.
Rise above the pain, rise above the derision
But you're on again, even though she's gone again.
And you're gonna' make it through
No matter what you do, 'cause you're on again.
And it's okay, it's a brand new day
'Cause you're on again!

(APRIL 1987/SCA)


All alone without a sister,
Breaking shells like otters at sea;
Turn to find you're on your way here,
Sailin', sailin', home to me.


May the moments break for you
As popped bubbles and rainy parades
All kaleidoscopic rainbows rattling off
Clever caresses of grand old intimacy
Like an attic's sentimental smell
Like dust on every faded trunk
Until antique hearts sift soft sand
With easy moonlight smiles.



Always, always, you will be mine.
Time, time, is our souls entwined.
Baby, baby, hush and do no' cry.
Spirit, spirit, such a pretty pony!

Moon is out and the Sun is in, you can close your eyes;
Diamonds, diamonds, shining in your mind.
Rollin', rollin', for it's strollin' time.
If you've no goofy dust, I will give you mine.
Daybreak, daybreak, can you see a man?
Fiddlin', fiddlin', on a little travelin' tune.
Baby, baby, good mornin', do no' cry.
Spirit, spirit, what a spotted pony!

(August 17, 1995/SCA)


I never knew I could love you so much.
In learning to know the feel of your soul
I find it's tender but bold, free but yet old
As wise as the sea and enveloping me
With its grasp and its tugs
Like one of your hugs.

I try to hold in what bursts from within
With logic and searching for signs of a fall
But near shore, the sharp edges of lime
That have ripped up my heart time after time
Flashing in my sight
Through breaking surf and moonlight
Can't force to mind enough fear of the pain
To keep the golden-silk butterfly entangled in chains
And not free to give, its reason to live.



Blue Jasmine and I flew down to the swings
Sharing apricot wine and drying our wings.
Drink dragon's blood and I be true...
Dragon fly...high...with you.

I am hers and she is mine.
Peach-flesh, cream, and apricot wine
She soothes me as I sleep...
Dragon fly...high...over you.

I say hey, yeah.
I say lonely.
I say hey, yeah.
I say cry.

Blue Jasmine has taught me to see
She spoke the truth, honey-suckling me
And sang a free lullaby
Dragonfly...high...with you.



Yesterday, you just about blew my mind away.
Now I know, that it's hard for you to let it show.
If I were a mockingbird, I would sing you a song
and I hope that you would sing along.

So it seems
like this life could be made of dreams.
If I were a mockingbird, I would sing you a song
and I hope that you would sing along.

I wish I knew how this lovesong ends
I guess it all depends.


Wednesday, June 10, 2009


What am I seeing?
You and me being
Together as one
Just don't sound too fun!

Yeah, I touched your hand
But let's understand
It don't mean a thing
I just want to be king.

If I take a day
Off to make some hay
While the sun shines in
You'll know where I've been
Do I gotta' be
There when you need me
Wearin' away my shoulder?
If I were bolder
I'd be outta' here
Commitment means fear
An easier feat
Is to lie and to cheat!
So what should I do
'Bout you not lovin' you?
Pretend there's love there?
I don't give a care!
The tricks that I plan
Sometimes hit the fan
Blow back in my face
My morals, disgrace!
So now if you find
That you hate the whole kind
Remember one thing
I just meant to be king!