The Perfect High - a poem by Shel Silverstein There once was a boy named Gimme-Some-Roy... He was nothin' like me or you, 'cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do. As a kid, he sat in the cellar...sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked banana peels, when that was the thing to do. He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, he breathed helium on the sly, and his life became an endless search to find the perfect high. But grass just made him wanna lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night, and the great things he wrote when he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light. Speed made him wanna rap all day, reds laid him too far back, Cocaine-Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back. He tried PCP, he tried THC, but they never quite did the trick. Poppers nearly blew his heart, mushrooms made him sick. Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long. Hash was a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong. Quaaludes made him stumble, booze just made him cry. Then he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high. Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat...lived high up in Nepal, High on a craggy mountain top, up a sheer and icy wall. "Well, hell!" says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly, Till I find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high." So out and off goes Gimme-Some-Roy, to the land that knows no time, Up a trail no man could conquer, to a cliff no man could climb. For fourteen years he climbed that cliff...back down again he'd slide . . . He'd sit and cry, then climb some more, pursuing the perfect high. Grinding his teeth, coughing blood, aching and shaking and weak, Starving and sore, bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak. And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat, As there in repose, and wearing no clothes, sits the god-like Baba Fats. "What's happenin', Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz . . . I hear you're hip to the perfect trip... Please tell me what it is. "For you can see," says Roy to he, "I'm about to die, So for my last ride, tell me, how can I achieve the perfect high?" "Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "Another burned out soul, Who's lookin' for an alchemist to turn his trip to gold. It isn't in a dealer's stash, or on a druggist's shelf... Son, if you would find the perfect high, find it in yourself." "Why, you jive mother-fucker!" says Roy, "I climbed through rain and sleet, I froze three fingers off my hands, and four toes off my feet! I braved the lair of the polar bear, I've tasted the maggot's kiss. Now, you tell me the high is in myself? What kinda shit is this? My ears, before they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kinda crap; But I didn't climb for fourteen years to hear your sophomore rap. And I didn't climb up here to hear that the high is on the natch, So you tell me where the real stuff is, or I'll kill your guru ass!" "Okay...okay," says Baba Fats, "You're forcin' it outta me... There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zabolee. A wretched land of stone and sand, where snakes and buzzards scream, And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzutzu tree. Now, once every ten years it blooms one flower, as white as the Key West sky, And he who eats of the Tzutzu flower shall know the perfect high. For the rush comes on like a tidal wave...hits like the blazin' sun. And the high? It lasts forever, and the down don't never come. But, Zabolee Land is ruled by a giant, who stands twelve cubits high, And with eyes of red in his hundred heads, he awaits the passer-by. And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the river of slime, Where the mucous beasts await to feast on those who journey by. And if you slay the giant and beasts, and swim the slimy sea, There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards the Tzutzu tree." "Well, to hell with your witches and giants," says Roy, "To hell with the beasts of the sea-- Why, as long as the Tzutzu flower still blooms, hope still blooms for me." And with tears of joy in his sun-blind eyes, he slips the guru a five, And crawls back down the mountainside, pursuing the perfect high. "Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, Facing another thousand years of talking to God, alone. "Yes, Lord, it's always the same...old men or bright-eyed youth... It's always easier to sell 'em some shit than it is to give them the truth."

For you my friend, sure. This is a short story in the book I am working on. It's based on an old Appalachian folk tale. Rupert and the Baby Mule Back when Rupert was just a boy, he had this infatuation with mules. From the time he could speak, he let anybody and everybody know that he wanted a baby mule to raise as his own and plow with one day. Any time that someone with a team of mules went by his house, he would run out to the fence and watch them as they passed. He would often ask the folks with the mules if they knew of anybody that had a litter of mules lately and if they might be willing to part with one. Most folks in the area knew about little Rupert's desire to have a baby mule and kind of went along with it, just for fun. Back then, most folks in the area (way back in The Woods) had never seen "exotic fruit" of any kind. In fact, very few had even seen a banana in person. One summer, Gene had somehow acquired a shipment of coconuts to sell in her little grocery store (simply known in the area as "Gene's.) Rupert walked over to Gene's one evening and sat down with the usual group of men that "hung out" there to play checkers and shoot the breeze while they sipped on their RC Colas filled with peanuts as they snacked on Moon Pies. Rupert, being a polite young man, just grabbed a chair, sat down with them and didn't say anything until he noticed the coconuts stacked in a bin near the back corner of the store. He had never seen anything like the large brown hairy looking things and was curious. . . "What are them things over there in the corner?" he asked It just so happened that Freetus Waldewinder was there, and, if you don't know about Freetus, well, he was a character among characters and like most everyone, knew about Rupert's obsession with baby mules. "Rupert," he began, "you of all people don't know what them are?" "Can't say that I've ever seen anything like 'em" Rupert replied. "Well Rupert," Freetus explained as Rupert looked on, "them's mule eggs! Yep, all you gotta do is give Gene a nickel for one, take it home and keep it warm for two weeks and you'll hatch out a baby mule all your own!" Rupert's little blue eyes lit up. Even back then, he worked various odd jobs doing this and that to earn a little spending cash. He just happened to have the money, promptly gave Gene a nickel and ran home with his new 'mule egg.' You should'a seen him tote'n that brown, hairy mass of a thing home like it was some kind of precious family treasure. Once he got it home, he fixed up a nest of hay in the barn to keep it warm. Since it was Summer and school was out, he had plenty of time to watch over it. He spent hours tending to it, talking to it, and he even took it to bed with him at night to make sure it stayed good and warm. He counted off the days: One week passed. Two weeks passed. Then three weeks passed and still, no baby mule. By this time, Rupert got to thinking that he might have a bad egg. He took it out back behind the barn and held it up to the sun to see if he could look through it. Then he shook it a little and listened for the kicking of the baby mule inside. He, of course, heard nothing and concluded that he had a bad egg. Disappointed, he heaved it into a nearby briar patch. A jack-rabbit was resting in this particular briar patch and was startled by the hairy brown mass that came crashing down near him. He took off running out of the briar patch as fast as his hind legs could hop him. Rupert only saw the glimpse of a brownish blur race out of the other end of the briar patch and assumed that it was the baby mule that had cracked of of its shell upon impact; so, naturally, he took off after it. Rupert began waving his arms in the air and was yellin' "Come back here; come to yer momma!" as he pursued what he thought was his hatchling. The poor little jack rabbit, already spooked, wasn't about to let the frantic, skinny thing chasing him get within twenty five yards and continued to flee. Rupert pursued the "baby mule" for about an hour and finally gave up the chase. "Aw, jest ferget it," he exclaimed, "I'd never be able to plow that fast anyhow!" (Copyright 2007)

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