Ron Stock

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Graduated, Professional Art Degree, Western Michigan University
Studio Gallery on San Francisco waterfront for 3 years
Paintings at
Licensed General Contractor in Berkeley for 10 years
Retired at 48, went on the Budget Highway in Central, South America, Europe, Africa for 4 years
Now spend 6 months a year in Mexico and 6 month ...
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You Don't Gotta Go To No God-Damn School To Be A Poet
My best friend of forty-five years died not too long ago
and like the fool I used to be I reacted with machismo.
I was building a home on a mesa of wild rabbits and sage,
thinking about my pal I was depressed, angry, in a rage.
No Ordinary Laughing Cowboy He
My Daddie and I didn't always get along,
Best day of my life's the day he passed on.
'Cause too many times when he started to drinking,
The crusty ol' fool just seemed to stop thinking.
A Love Poem For Endangered Species
These friends need our help who are swimming in the water.
The Nile crocodile and the Congo clawless otter.
The American alligator and the Ganges River dolphin.
The Loggerhead sea turtle and the Utah Lake sculpin.
For A Few Hours We Were All The Same
of Hurricane Patricia slamming into the little fishing village of La Manzanilla del Mar, Mexico, on October 23,2015, in the late afternoon, early evening light, until darkness
of palm trees that swished and swayed like pulsating jellyfish in the violent turbulence
of water-drenched green leaves pasted in elaborate patterns across colorful adobe walls
of a baby chick, in a nest, in a weak tree, of how it survived 165 mph winds, or not
Do Not Become Attached Nor Afraid
The last week of 1968. In an old white house called The Ghetto West in Kalamazoo. A friend and I are in a basement room of barn wood walls and carpeting green and blue. A groovy space with a universe of stars painted on a flat black ceiling, candles galore, incense burning, and the mellow sounds from a stereo on the edge of a sunken floor.
I'm on my back, eyes closed, on the rim, head propped against a pillow. Mort, my guide, has asked me to swallow a 550-microgram tab of LSD, lysergic acid diethylamide.
Mort reads from The Psychedelic Experience; Leary, Alpert, and Metzner's book based upon The Tibetan Book of the Dead. I feel woozy, but I am able to listen. 'O Ron, the time has come for you to seek new levels of reality. Your ego and the Ron game are about to cease. You are about to be set face to face with the clear light. Do not become attached nor afraid.' Sometime later, musical notes become raw vibrant colors that merge and explode into dazzling molecular waves of energy. I sit up, open my eyes. The walls are vibrating, side to side, dancing, up and down, shimmying, to and fro, just before they pulsate into an intense red hot flame and melt away. Faaaaar out! I
think. But I did think. The point is not to think. To let go. To blow out, the flame of thought. To find the clear light. I lie down, relax, try to keep my, Ego Death, in sight. Eyes closed, kaleidoscopic images cascade over a spring of liquid inside my glistening arteries. Red, orange, and yellow psychedelic spinning childhood memories swirl, mingle, fuse with a retinal circus of floating amoebic forms. Darwinian insights carry my mind's eye back down the flow of time until the drumbeat of my heart, beats, with


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