Book Review - "Level 26"

There are evil people in this world as we all are aware of. They are called many names; monster, fiend, devil, immoral, wicked and so forth. Society likes to pinpoint the evil doers around us by giving then angry monikers, but sometimes nothing seems to fit a particular evil. When a person goes against every moral sense to this point we are at a loss to pigeonhole him or her, but we do keep trying.

In Level 26 such a man exists. This book is written by the creator of the television phenomenon, "CSI," Anthony Zuiker with Duane Swierczynski. It is, to use Zuiker's own words the worlds first "digi-novel." Level 26 is an interactive read, the first of its kind, where every twenty pages or so you are given an Internet address and code to unlock a video which will give you a visual of what you have just read. I, for one, love the concept and it brought the book into my intimate self as I read and then watched its progress.

In Level 26, law enforcement has a scale with which they categorize certain murderers, from one to twenty-five. In Level 26 they have had to notch the number upward to 26, hence the novel's name. The serial killer in this book has eluded capture for decades. He has plied his trade all over the world and there are no rhyme or reason to the people he selects. Steve Dark, the protagonist of the novel, has chased him for years, and in Rome almost captured or killed him, but he got away. After such a close call the murderer targeted Steve's adopted family and killed them all, driving Steve into exile and out of the FBI

Steve is working on happiness away from being exposed to the dregs of society. He is married and a soon-to-be-father. His demons have been chased, if not away, at least out of the forefront of his thoughts. But the FBI wants him back. The dark past beckons and Steve is forced to come back to the job and work with his ex-boss and a former worker with who he had a disastrous one-night affair.

Level 26 is an experience. The murderer seems to think he has God on his side, and in fact is a disciple of God. He also has a personal interest in taunting Steve Dark, giving him clues which turn out to be dead-ends, or at least a residence that he has just recently vacated. As Steve's wife is kidnapped right under the FBI's nose and secreted in a dungeon by the murderer, treachery, political correctness and hate come to a forefront and clash as Steve and his two allies fight to find, and rescue her before it is too late.

And when they do combine to trap the killer the story is over. It is done. Or is it?

I highly recommend this ground breaking novel for what books will evolve into in the years to come.

Book Review - A Mystic Garden

Thanks to Dawn Wilson for giving me this little book so packed full of life and living, death and resurrection . . .


A Mystic Garden derived its name from author Gunilla Norris's hometown of Mystic, Connecticut. It is a fitting name, for because of the geographical location of her home and the inner spirit of which she wrote this one hundred and on page book. A tiny book it is in size and bulk, but the inside of it, the writing, is immense and will touch the heart and soul of anyone who picks it up and begins to read.

A Mystic Garden is many things according to the one who is reading it. Gunilla Norris speaks of gardening throughout this book and how the four seasons affect the seeding, the pampering and the growing of her garden up until harvest time, or if there are merely flowers she grows, the peak of their life span.

But A Mystic Garden goes a step further than most gardening books. The author relates gardening, its hardships, its promise, failures and success to the human essence and the ups and downs we enjoy and are saddened by. This book takes the reader from the starkness and apparent death of winter to our own lives and even souls. As the garden grows fallow during the dearth of warmth, so does our spirit as we hunker down in front of the fireplaces and keep artificially warm. We await spring and its sunshine and growing abilities. Like the garden we are dormant for the most part during the winter season.

A Mystic Garden takes the reader through all four seasons, complaining about this or that and joyful because of that or this. Through it all, Gunilla Norris gives example and example of the similarity of her garden to our souls. When the garden is in full bloom and the flowers and vegetables are at their peak to yet another winter where everything is bleak and frozen this book correlates it to our human inner self in such a beautiful and simple way that it will touch the reader in places where he or she hasn't been touched before.

I wholeheartedly recommend A Mystic Garden, this pint-sized book of death to its rejuvenation of seeding, followed by growth as it blooms for the harvest to come and back to winters cold fingers of death again. Gunilla Norris prefaces the book with a Spanish Proverb, In the garden more grows than the gardener sows. If you find yourself turning the pages of this book you will quite understand what this proverb means.

©November 23, 2009 / Jerry Pat Bolton

Being There

I squirted red wine
From a goatskin flask
In a besotted Greek salute to
Bacchus, god of wine and revelry.
But I wasn’t there.

I wore fine linen garments, powder in my hair,
A manly rite of passage
In perverted old Europe
And stepped gracefully to the
Minuet with Lucrezia Borgia.
But I wasn’t there.

I jitterbugged in the Speakeasy
With the Flappers of Chicago,
Kicking high and lovin’ hard
On bathtub gin, free expression
And Marxists philosophy.
But I wasn’t there.

I dug the scene at The Duplex,
Kerouac’s favorite watering hole
With Ginzberg spewing righteous
Beatnik intellect there in
Greenwich Village.
But I wasn’t there.

I draped love beads
Round my neck,
Standing among the faithful
Digging Janis in San Francisco with
Big Brother and the Holding Company.
This time I was there.

And I’ll be there in the flesh,
Decked out in my costume of choice
At the World’s First United Mardi Gras
Celebration in the Mojave Desert,
Puking on Gila Monsters and
Chasing Roadrunners.

Sins Of The Past

If I were someone,
Someone not me,
The sins of the past
Would let me be.

The sins of the past
Would another one hurt,
Deep inside where ugly
Resides like piled-up dirt.

Deep inside where ugly
Causes the mother to be mean,
Gives birth to the son
She thought was obscene.

Causes the mother to be mean
Since the father was a rolling stone.
A rolling stone became his son,
Searching the highways for his clone.

A rolling stone became his son
Going from town to town.
Leaving unloved children in his wake,
Searching for father to shoot him down.

Going from town to town
He finds his father hunkered down.
Old now unable to run,
He looks up at his son with the gun.

Old now unable to run
He laughs, coughs and laughs more.
Opening his arms saying "Do it now
And then go back and shoot the whore.

-©May 7, 2003 / Jerry Pat Bolton

Betty Boop Was A Slut

This may come as a big surprise but
Betty Boop was an out-and-out slut.
How she fooled them all, it was a joke,
She would never turn down any bloke.

Her life of depravity you see
Started with Dick (whadda name) Tracy.
After scouring the city for crime,
Upon his nightstick Betty did climb.

Oh my, yes, Betty was such a mess
Just a smile and she would drop that dress.
Moon Mulligan had her to play with,
Or in a pinch she'd take Snuffy Smith.

The Boop had Flash Gordon, the spaceman,
Taught him more ways than a moonbeam can.
It was all to make Steve Canyon mad,
Oh, Betty was a mean one; so sad.

She didn't cull, she welcomed them all,
Even rumors about Olive Oyl.
A wild child, she lived life at full tilt,
She could, you know, look how she was built.

Joe Palooka found he could not fight
With Betty, she had an overbite.
That made it interesting and oral,
When all done the men had no quarrel.

She starred in Tijuana Bibles
And Mary Worth sued her for libel.
Grabbed Popeye for a sexual brawl,
Then told everybody he was small.

A gourmet lass, she worked like a chef
Even double-teamed old Mutt and Jeff.
Batman too, he wrote her a letter,
She snickered, said Robin was better.

Shared her slut title with Nancy Drew,
Between the two they had quite a queue.
Blondie gave her a run, did not shirk,
Hurrying Dagwood, quick off to work.

Loving the man of steel was her plight,
Why not, it was hard as Kryptonite?
What a pitiful shape she was in,
Superman was in love with her twin.

©February 14, 2005 / Jerry Pat Bolton

Rooming House on St. Charles

1968 . . .
New Orleans
I'd been in worse
and better
places
just a room to sleep
sweaty nights
and sit
in the daytime, on the bed
being quiet
not to bother anyone
that is how I was then . . .
how I wanted it
to hide my future, my
secrets
secrets which drove me there
in the first place
damn it to hell and back
Downtown Jackson Brown
Minnie the Moocher
all those cats
doing Mardi Gras
outside my window
shuttered and closed tight, my window
because . . . I felt like shit
why not
who was I to think thoughts
grandeur ones
so I sit and sweat
and
horde my puny little secrets
secrets, like
I am no good
and
everybody knows it
something
made me write

Sitting all alone
In a smoky, crowded bar
Life passes him by

What happened to the
. . . . . . . .
hell, I can't even remember
what
is gone
sad
ain't it sad
how did it get this way
alone
when the whole world is partying
made me also write this

Carnival is here
Crowds jam the street with laughter
He plays solitaire

Last night I ventured into
society
sorta
kinda
well, I went here

High above the street
A lonely window shines bright
Love is bought and sold

Oh, yeah, I forgot
I have
secrets
to tell
if you wanna to hear
you do, huh
don't you
my, my
what good are secrets
if nobody wants to hear 'em
so I write 'em down
on paper, yeah

Crumpled note on floor
Tells the story of love gone.
A time for dying

Dedicated to the Victims of Ft. Hood Massacre

Terrorist in store earlier in the day before he murdered thirteen people and wounded many more . . .







A cold and pitiless wind moves among us,
A current of current rising from epochs old.
Can we sleep serenely and without fear when
Amid stirrings of horse’s hoofs he smiles?
Beneath primordial moons deviously does plot,
Time is of no value, eternity has evolved.
Without the ticking sound of the life’s clock,
Snorting Arabian steed’s anxious for the fight.
Poised on every shore, peering into windows,
O, so stealthy, when at last the moon has hid.
And the tide washes up, deposits combatants,
They come, by air, luxury liner, banana boat.
By the soles of their feet, souls of their God,
Like residue from a growing, fanatical storm.
What blood moves through these warriors,
Which provokes bloodlust as easily as a smile?
He is there, over there, here too, right here,
Where the children are at play with yesterday’s
Values, yesterday’s view, yesterday’s excitement?
When the tongue and eyes of the ancient ones
Speak softly, gazing upon the long awaited prize.
The thundering of million’s of hoofs let loose,
Neighing a battle cry to the dead, silent old ones.
And we, well we go about our business of sanity,
Thinking we are good, we are clean, we laugh.
Calmly we do leave the doors and the windows
Ajar for our visitors who are now neighbors,
To finish the ancient martyr’s settling of scores.

Winter's Moon

I stare out my window tonight,
The cold moon gives off a strange light.
Its so mournful I heard it sigh,
Setting up there so very high.

I know that sigh, I know it well,
Within my heart it mutely dwells.
A sigh can be a lovely thing,
Sometimes it makes you want to sing.

Somewhere, some place there is some one,
Looking at the moon just for fun.
Tonight we are together free,
That's a very good way to be.

Tomorrow's dawn will shine anew,
I wonder how life is with you.
The one who watched the moon with me,
With poet's thoughts we both agree.

Will we be poets come daybreak,
Or has it all been one more fake?
Will we pick up our guns and fire,
Your god and mine are just for hire.

©November 2, 2009 / Jerry Pat Bolton