Booney Tunes Jukebox
Now you can listen to all six recordings by James Walktendonk by clicking here.
A wonder with twirls of sheen
Wordless echoes of starlight
So close you may touch a pool or wave
From horizon to horizon
Each adding atmospheric glow globes
Surrounding the daydream beautifully
This blend of promise is a gift
From who or what I cannot say
But words do shiver us whole
If the iridescent daydreams recollects promise
From where I lay eyes wide open
I see the glory into memories whole
Someday withdrawn, I will recollect this prize
In hopes gratitude anxious for need
Iridescent daydreams
In a blaze of violets with chiffon touch
Lace garnered by intricate patterns
But easy for my eyes to love and recover
Iridescent daydreams with plenty of tangents
So go where you will
Prize what you see
Touch a holy realm
Be not a number
See yourself within
An iridescent daydream
5-15-2003 JWalk
Morphine stopped the pain he felt, as he lay bandaged up on the chopper deck.
The throbbing in his right leg continued to leak blood clear through the gauze
dressing.
As he stared out at the horizon, to the sounds of chopper blades cutting through
air and bursts of the door gunners M-60 machine guns, the morphine rounded each
hard angle into an acceptable bargain.
The confusion lost its grip on reality and his loss of blood brought him closer
to a semi-balance of light that hovered ever nearer to his body.
It was then he realized he might not make it back to the world.
As if in retrospect, each second that ticked became a life time of its own.
Slow motion swirled in and out of sync with relative time as he willed his heart
beat to pump only enough blood to keep him in stasis.
His breathing slowed down to an easy slow tempo, lessening the strain on arteries,
slowing the red stain from emptying him. Like a slow dance on prom night, he
would wait to see if he was gonna score.
1988 James Wachtendonk
Maniacal behavior is exorcized by Sister Star, her incense air and turbaned head frames an aura of warm blue tones while her eyes sparkle dark like black ice. Bring in your suffering, tragedies, hard luck stories and such for Sister Star to sort through and make sense of. Her portal of presence looks not into a crystal ball but rather into the eyes of the stranger sitting opposite. In them are answers held in stasis, folded in a crease of skin, or empty of energy needed to escape the blind sense of purpose. An unwritten order begins to show itself. The reasons for unhappiness become obvious. The remedy takes on as its shape calm waters, inner peace and simple magic in flux with its opposite. It attracts the disease and reasons it into quiet dialogue. Retraced steps of quiet interludes follow. A shallow breath exhaled softly was the only sound Sister Star made. Her touch is charged static, warm reassurance and nonjudgmental. Invisible layers of calm are smoothed into the being of her wounded client, releasing ill will and strengthening the soul.
© 93 Jim Wachtendonk
Behind the pole star can be found a sapphire shrine for those
fated
Individuals who wander the crystal mist of uncertainty. Set in an open
Envelope of sparkling mirror magic, the shrine holds those whose
Purpose is detoured into an endless house of mirrors, offering a respite
To forgotten, spirits and contenders in flight. I learned this from an old
Soul in the Garden of the Gods, where fate had chosen us to meet. Living
In the moment, sensing another old soul, she turned with a welcoming
Smile where words were unspoken, yet true in that moment. She patted
The red rock she sat on and continued to travel simple lines of innate
Tranquility, etching remarks of the mother, holding nothing back, thus
Absorbing each moment as is, collecting warmth and knowledge unsaid
And magnificent. I laid down my ruck sack, sat next to her and began
The slowing of my heart, senses absorbing the view and its members,
Coalescing aptitudes hard learned. As dusk gave way to twilight, sundown
Eased its way to horizons belt, creating streams of .color accented with
A surrealists glow, bending light, leaving its way to the diamond studded
Night sky of the Milky Way. Its appearance was cobalt nectar, amplified
By she whom had not spoken, yet welcomed into the golden glow, the
Etched ebb and flow within the continuum of timelessness with beauty
And calm. She pointed to the pole star and began to speak in an ancient
Language I understood. She told me of the sapphire shrine, an old story that
Wove a symphony of understanding, passed down since there was the people.
3-16-97 JWalktendonk
There is a spot on my left eye that I cannot see through . It limit’s the way I perceive the world. For a long time it bothered me but not any more. I have learned if the setting is just right, I can see the window to my soul. I have located sparks that lead me on an inner journey guiding me toward a glow that I think may be my Soul. It took some practice to view the images seen through the spot on my left eye while going about the everyday life with it’s emotional displays. While the sign posts are clear on the outside leading me on to everyday visuals, I must tred slowly and softly as I enter the spot on my left eye exploring a little further each time I entered the terrain. As best I can describe , it resembles a large tree with all it’s leaves gone like in late Fall or early Winter. Among those branches are sparks that flash on and off creating an intricate journey. The warm glow in the distance is inviting calm and constant. I keep trying to get closer to the glow but the directions to itself changes and are lost within the maze of my mind. So I set out each time with a map I must recreate because a few times I got lost and could not find my way out of the spot on my left eye. Blind sighted left-handed and in search of my soul I reentered my window of sparks and glow only to find a new landscape through the window on my left eye. To question it’s balance, shape or location takes a gift garnered to each of us. As to the existence of the spot on my left eye, I cannot say if anyone but me has one.
7-1-03 JWalktendonk
Top
In the vacuum of space, far from story land, darkness finds a home. Minute partials
dig deep for purchase, away from the light that crowds the night skies. Solar
winds move articulated shapes that return from infinities wake, trying to establish
a semblance of any kind.
The dark matter is stored in celestial show rooms where upon entry, the black
matter defeats all contenders of every sliver of light. There was no beginning
of it all.
The oldest darkness did not explode in the big bang. It was there before it.
It prospered, lingering only a few times to surround the Creator with its beauty
of form and density, not heavy by any means, yet purified perchance buy the
one who offered light and nebulas, worlds and solar systems, all that can be
seen or sensed. In these recessed of black backed solar sharks move unending
within this realm of invisible beauty eating up any particle visible to its
keen senses. They are gigantic in proportion to the blackness, camouflaging
their way throughout the universe, appearing then disappearing, immortal, always
moving, the epic journey of form and function. Deep within the dark matter of
spatial formations other dimensions may exist, other timeliners may move forward,
exotic where they may thrive, blackness as friend may have found a home attracting
opposites in care of empty light, with its solar sharks as talisman beholding
to only itself keeping these reaches pure so darkness will thrive. Look up into
the clear night sky and some night dream of these places. It is all I can do
but to watch and listen to the sweet solar breeze of Gods breath upon all creation
wondering at its simplicity and existing black regions of space where my twin
may live a life opposite from mine.
11-29-03 JWalk
Under excited, overrated, upper handed, low life yuppy scum walk
toward me staring into plastic space. Upper status quo Joe had alongside him
the bimbo bitch from yuppy hell. A perfect picture, at ease as their ragged
counterpart now approaches. ...Like a flat tire at 2 a.m. they have that empty
air look of disrepair and the "how can this be happening to me" look.
I tip my booney hat, reach into my rucksack and produced two bamboo flutes,
each carved as Katu holy snakes. My gifts disoriented them and my intrusion
upset their ordered predictable lives. Hope was held hostage by these people.
An unfelt emotion of trust stopped them from accepting my gift scaled music.
They move away quickly to the sound of muzak in the mall. I set the snake flutes
down on the promenade floor where they come to life and slither toward the retreating
husks that pass for human beings.
© 93 Jim Wachtendonk
Cursing the sky doesn't help
Feeling sorry for yourself is pitiful
Taking hold and controlling my nightmares
Seems impossible at this time
They haunt a weaving frightening sleep
I yell out in the night
Screaming myself awake
And she watches, afraid for us all
© 79 Jim Wachtendonk
The blind flirtatious moment lingered, a buoyant anomaly capturing the essence that held no one in contempt on Easy Street. Each hallowed word could not aptly describe such a sight as this, in flux with its opposite, blending crags of speech held hostage with silence, glass eyed virgins sang to the effort of near perfect reflections seen in the pool of light. rapid, distinct, icy, formed then reformed yet again in the prayer' pried open the fool whose laughter' rang deep into ourselves, our' being, our inadequate, primitive thoughts that laid down the evil and raised up the chaste on Easy Street.
Quiet Repose offered the gathering of intuitive pools filled with new thoughts from a far off place within the recesses of your inner self. Breaking the seal, bleeding new veins, exploring inner space obliges one to add selflessness the comprehension to understand those innate qualities the guilty have shed, the opportunist who steals and the murderer has taken, while leaving in there place deeds yet to do, explanations yet to qualify with innocents as bounty for it's shapeless, candid, and melancholy gift of sightless acceptance with no bond held in place of it at all, because its a bitch living on Easy Street.
© 3-19-96 Jim Wachtendonk
Jimmy is lost. Jane went to find him but she got lost
to. A group of neighbors formed up and combed the
woods and no one has heard from any of them in four
days. The National Guard was called out and even with
global positioning computers their disappearance became a
national disaster. Equipment was mobilized , State
Troopers cordoned off the massive area and allowed no
one in. The Pentagon got pissed because that National Guard
unit was to be sacrificed in Iraq. The following month Jimmy
was found in Biloxi wearing the uniform of General George
Custer and Jane was found wandering inside Area 51.
Having lost all memory of their identities, The National
Guard Unit was discovered wearing uniforms of the Popes
elite guard wearing The Swiss Army Regalia.
8-11-03 JWalktendonk
They had marinated minds. Most of those listening glistening to each word spoken by the pork pie, whose disinformation wreaked of half truths to the marinated minds empty of free thought. The pork pies delivery was sa-mooth, like dying in your sleep or it was brutal, being forced to walk the razor's edge with no arms for balance. Some get angry while I smile in reverse, knowing the duped can't bend with the breeze, won't feel the seasons in succession as a pulse of mother earth, won't approach an idea that's universal then follow it to the many conclusions that await in silence. Anger fuels their dismay while days, weeks and years of slow marination bleeds them like leeches in a rice patty. Pity is a self centered black hole that sucks even the life light from them. Nothing escapes this condition if the marinated minds only listen to the pork pie and his cohorts spewing out lessons between the haves and the have nots, spoken in a trance like a seductive cadence, staccato with an irreparable sense of who to blame, who to hate, who should pay, who should suffer at the hands of these pathetic marinated brain dead husks who suck up what’s said like bottom feeders, who can never get enough to fill their fat fucking guts.
I rest my case.
© 9-27-95 Jim Wachtendonk