Camp Rosetta Stone

Camp Rosetta Stone by Paul H. Prochnow The counselors were all           kissy-face and your burden to please as they sat around the campfires,     it was her emotions she built a shrine to and begged eternal undying devotion, due to her               intellectual @ biocreative ability and artistic creative mental landscape,                 and it was the year her Billy built his first tuba                       but couldn't blow a note. Our counselour she showed us the trees             holding some things so dear she crushed them to death                     jealosy seemed to feel more like a smell than looks like a color                     as we inspected her dear stuff. We were all eleven year-old boys,         "screaming mee-mees" running to the assay office with our nuggets. The swineherd and the swine           rely on the schweinhundt - - - and when the hound joins the swine? He always had sweet momma-titty                   and nintendo sesame street so....that's why he took the gun and shot the school. Like forced labor in an           internment camp she sat us around the campfire       as dusk got to it.   She sat crossed legged cross ankled and her ligaments puled in the calf and back of the thighs as she emphasized her tale about a talking tree, a white buffalo, and Casper and Wendy elk hunting in Jersey, she askes me a question - I were not listening - being eleven I started to notice stuff like she didn't have a "boy package" when I was looking  "there" when she asked me the question, but when I looked "there" there was something that showed through her thin short pants. Sun down....she packed us up in the tents, nobody slept it was only just dark,     we got up and stirred up the fire,     we picked up the half-dollar sized toads we picked up         and as little boys do               threw them in the fire, Boy....did they go!               They were squishy wiggly little dudes,         if the group mania                       was not so high I would have felt bad.........         NOT THEN. ************************************************ Camp Rosetta Stone II by Paul H. Prochnow little boys eleven years old do not know war or peace, they are eleven years old, its better a dad learns them the ropes,       or dad tricks, not all mommy myth I didn't like the mommy hugs all the time -         rip off my clothes in the middle of winter and make me run like Jim Bridger                   or John Colter, when you're eleven you want your feet   to bleed and sweat in a blizzard,     to sit in your snow pants wet all over for hours       in your home made igloo snow fort. the male "sapiens sapiens"         has a bad habit of concentrating the thought......the "else"                           then goes "bye-bye"... Out on another hike we left leader's folk tunes           the next day and picked up on "Good Luck Charm" on our own the back-up part the "UH-HUH-HUH" part     behind Elvis became like a contest, We also sang Hank Senior's moon on behind a cloud       as we hiked, we had a 78rpm "B-side" about having a beer in a lawn-dree-mat               sitting on a Kenmore Ring-a-ding-thing-hill-billy-thing-ring-a-ding,         then we shut up and took in a rat rustle through the brush.....     glimpse of a black shadow almost....         wind swoosh and through the tree top sunlight. The toads were never thought of again     by these cruel eleven year olds,       We were meant to scrap no eyeball gouging no trachea hits or chokes no biting,sticks, or rocks no direct gonad hits submission accepted on any holds         and hopefully an impromptu uncle will see to do a break on the submission,     flying rear attack half-nelsons are good for a rolling shoulder throw                 thump to the ground, Although this trip we got some blood when one eleven year old     shoulder found some sharp sticks,   So we got busted by her     she only had a few bandaids in her pocket, these eleven year olds were meant to scrap                             so they did, Walking the path kindly     letting the next one behind           grab the sapling branch from you, and if you did not       it was just a punch to           the upper back               if you gave a "stinger", Youth pop music had a     penchant for melody, no flat shaman boredom chant then,     Melodies lived in our heads, Stanzas lived there when we       sang together           we did not "broken record" mantra, You can see why our little                     minds today snap     and are overwhelmed       by inhuman sound         they can never make           themselves. Written November 15th, 2001 © on Nov 15 2001 07:59 AM PST   0 • 8