Log in


  It is the winter time and my heart is on fire with thoughts of all the people of this land called Pagosa Springs, Colorado who have held it together. The fabric pulled taught but and ripped but never tore so badly it was beyond repair. This next hit goes out to Haylee Burnette, a streamer of the San Juan Mountains living at the summit of the nearest peak, send messages to God. While those like myself sat and cursed god, Haylee praise from a mountain closer to the sky than any man could reach in a day. Upon a mountain there is a compound I can see from here and I am going to find it and within it, Haylee herself or all she has left behind. Haylee, child of God, we love you and will breath your spirit always and feel it with the land. Claim your liver and kidney worth of land and hold it, even if you let an organ in order to hold the other; that is what the life of Haylee taught us. I look up a mountainside and raise a fist you, Haylee. You found peace at last all of us still dream about.

Laugh Long, Love Life,

Ryan Versaw   


Right now I am thankful for a place that has driven  me into blissful minsanity I eat with cake and ice cream. Lightener Creek   Mobile Home Park  makes such a fist pounding, detrimental impact +upon the earth that I wonder if all like  me relaize what beautiful hell we live in. A sewage pond bubbles green downstream, accross the field from Lightener Creek and our water is allegedly up the hill. Near the aeration pond is a small puddle existing where there should be only dirt and reeds planted originally to absorb poisons from sewage. Reeds carry our disease and the bacterium of the new era is the  mentality people use to hide it. I am the one who exposes our shit and claim my share; a thousand fluses and a  million gallons of digested food per year along with all of the chemicals that drain fro my baby blue topped trailer. Ah, sweet garbage and sludge that  I feed to the world and the poison it creates.  My  mark of poison is lie soap and bleack used to clean the sink and toilet in addition to the fuel I need to walk accross this land, as far as the eye can see and trash  my edible excess. Yes, there is excess, and I live within it in estacy. Just when I exist in the dark of what flows down the creek to  me, I walk up the road to discover that we have raped a burial ground and paved it with synthetic places of rest that resonate with pain now one can see without rolling in it.

A  man by the last name of Seale believes it is illegal to sell milk form his Nubian goats because you need a paper permit to sell your bread. At the end of the road exists a series of a-frames upon a hill side where a septic overflow pond exists uphill from the creek we know and love. Perpendicular to the other houses exists a house of a girl who believes in provacy in a land refusing to give privacy to the dead. Each step I take drains my energy and fills  me with dirt from the way we live in this valley; thankfully  my soul to take only when I am dead. Bless this land of cursed dread and be done with it at the end of this  month. Such a great spirit within the inverted lake of the sky and a land of poison dirt and beauty. This world is a fucked up and beautiful place, one of hatred and love. I vow to take care of  it and heal before getting out of here.



  So this afternoon has been filled with spurts of motivation timed with power outages that happened to affect the side of my trailer near my computer and lamp. This has been the first time for the last hour or so that I haev been able to access my brain and several places to use it. Reading would have been a suitable alternative to online work but was unavailable due to lack of light. Luckily we are back online again and my brain never quite woking, even though the power might have. Without even having to touch the breaker the electricity turned back on and functioned like gold once more. Now I can return to The Bader-Meinhof Comlex, which I was watching just a while ago. We shall see what My brain comes up with and uses to paint its canvas as I sit back, collect, and take notes from the paint and ink regurgitated by my subconscious as I dwell here in the dark, staring up at the ceilign from a rolling office chair as balck as the night I sit within. Long live marijuana and the imagination.

Laugh Long, Love Life,

Ryan Versaw

There is a place inside my head and within that place is girl named Blake Lively. Inside my mind are the expressions and demeanor of a girl I know that I hurt because of the type of person I am. I feel the surface before backing off and when I finally do dig like one is supposed to I gouge so deep I am unsure what to do with it. I let some gouge me until I run into the ones whose stance I cannot decipher. I would have let you closer except I was unsure of where you stood. If you completely hate me that you would trash me until I died but if you loved a part of me that there could be a fire between us whose warmth would reconnect us together. I enjoyed every minute I spent fucking with your mind and love you for it: thank you. It hurt and the pain was difficult to nullify which was what I Ioved about it. More could have existed between us had her eyes seen more.

There is a fire inside me, burning to devour the last of the pain from the denial of a coward to afraid to allow the world to know she rolls in the dirt. Blake, here is to you, fame and fucking fortune in all. You excell at weakening the skin and toughen mine because of the way it works. Thank you Blake for ensuring that my soul will never die and Fuck You for not being here to fight once more.

Fuck you with love and hate:

Laugh Long, Love Life,

Ryan Versaw


will you respond already?

Come one all ye faithful or unfaithful, will ye respond at least?

You could say fuck you or I agree or disagree with your post. Words like dislike or indifferent are acceptable. I need feedback in why the world is so fucked up sometimes and why I must take a shot back at it to feel better. These days I feel as though I am nailing a shot back at the wall. This wall I refer to is pasted with an assortment of memories of my life. Photographs of a Washington street, lined with trees and the dirtiest river in the Northwest. Brick houses and abandoned buses nearby a field serves as a giant compound and gatehouse for the military. Life sifts slowly from one side of the street to the other for a passer by from outside this neighborhood. People of paint and a taste for life and the culture to prove this, exist in a place where the troubled can actually heal. Up the street is a coffee shop that would flourish if someone only spread the word and if the owner wanted it to be spread.

"I am not really trying to make money girls; I've just always wanted to own a coffee shop," said a woman in my mind as she sipped on something covered in foam and whipped cream. 

There is more to come. Beware the dreedles. To find out what those are, stay tuned.

Laugh Long, Long Love Life,

Ryan Versaw   


There has been a recent interest in the type of content I like to post when spitting thought. This is my canvas so if you have a problem with any of it, leave it in a post to myself as opposed to the Director of Student Affairs. You know who you are. Here, allow me to post some original content within the following days to distract and dazzle with--take all minds off of the subject of fetishes whom might be a problem for. Or if you have a problem, it might mean that you are listening like you should be. Send and deliver, for I am a bold receiver if ye have any disrespect.

Laugh Long, Love Life,

Ryan Versaw 

Calling all Stewards of Disrespect

Hey you,
It has been a long time, so I thought that I would send you a message and a funny story of the utmost hilarity. The tale begins at a sad little campus called Colorado Mesa University of Grand Junction, Colorado. I was delivering a copy of the student paper I write for, "The Criterion," to a source by the name of Scotty Waters, member of a band by the name of Drop Top Lincoln. Check them out; they have a web site by their name followed by the ".com" and play a plethora of Rockabilly and Jazz tones with a heavy dusting of Rock. Upon writing a review of their band I brought him a paper and found out while standing like a jackass on his doorstep with him reading the paper that the editor of my section edited the paper so poorly they tore it apart and mismatched the names of the band members with their appropriate positions--as he was reading it. This infuriated me with such vigor that I send a wave of disrespect in the form of an email laden and spiced with several "fuck you's" which promptly got back to the lead editor and the faculty adviser, professor Sandstrom.
I will take this time to keep the name of the editor confidential. Her name is Allyssa Chambers. Feel free to mock her in writing. In any case, this and one of my posts from my journal, a post with references to spanking, got back to the Vice President of Academic Affairs upon a reference to the site to a fellow student. The post went straight from a student I cannot recall to the adviser and to the Vice President and I was asked to meet with him about my "Style of communication" and the heat was on.
When I sat down at the desk of Vice President of Academic Affairs John Marshall, I asked him about the content of the blog in question he responded with oblivion of the title of the blog but stated that it contained some questionable content.
"All I can tell you is that the subject matter contained something about..," he leaned in close as if wanting to prevent others outside his office from hearing and paused before finishing, "spanking...and not in a fun way either--one that was meant to hurt."
Fighting back a laugh, I inquired about the reason why this was a university issue. He responded with his inquiry of concern about whether I possessed any intention of hurting my fellow students. For a moment I considered saying "only if they have been a bad girl" but decided that this would weaken my chances of fighting to establish that this was an act between consensual adults and should never have hit university turf. What I would like to know is how the masses of the spanking community would handle such a moment with pure, undiluted mockery over something these professors could barely talk about in a casual conversation. I almost want to ask why the faculty of the Mass Communications Department would ever feel it was their duty to delve into subject matter they could not touch with a ten foot pole unless a student had gone on-line and out of their way to get it.
This is a moment of mockery and a call for disrespect. Tell me what you think and notify your friends. Call me a sucker for starting a fire but the tinder has been piled and the matches are scattered everywhere. Take what humor you can and give nothing back but responses. My journal will contain the plight of this story and all I ask as readers is that you speak your mind and fill the pages with responses to my post. Send this to your friends and neighbors because I am firing a shot from this as my platform. I need a person with a spanking finesse to help the flames grow with wind and I have chosen you. The flames must grow my friends and I am growing cold of the hell frozen over brought by those to cowardly to speak their mind to me without going to the authorities of an institution over an interest of mine and the beautiful and passion word of FUCK. I almost want to ask what else these people do when they run out of room to hide behind desks and classrooms full of students educated enough to regurgitate information but not discuss their concerns.
Calling all clowns of disrespect and jesters of fetish with something to say in this regard. Friends, Romans, countrymen, send me your middle fingers because there are too many assholes to say fuck you to and not enough hands of mine to raise myself. I want only to provoke a response here and give bait to those who fish like blind net-surfing sailors with enough gusto to find their hook on-line but never tell me anything I do not need to draw out of them with questions like poison. The devil is laughing at the so called humility I am required to give the people that see this as a legitimate concern for the safety of students. Read, digest, and fling this one off of the carousel for me. The ring leader awaits.
Laugh Long, Love Life,
Ryan Versaw         


  It is fall again in Palisade, Colorado and I look up from my desk in the corner of my vintage trailer and to see a green field near a school on one side of me and a neighboring trailer on the other. I laugh this morning as I recall a discussion with my editor and about requirements of a news article and complaints of my "excessive" length. When the editor-in-chief told me never to try never to exceed 200 words over the seven hundred and fifty word length requirement, my section editor, Cloie, lowers the maximum requirement to five hundred. This toying annoys me but I contain the pressure generating within my chest and skull and keep pressing. The discussion ended with the section editor repeating her assertion of "Five Hundred to seven hundred words, that's your leeway," as if her primary concern was the right to the last breath and sound. It amazes me that this final moment is more important than the conclusion of the conversations between us. 

My mind whirs and I catch the moment again and ride the stream back to the present as the carousel of time returns me there. The library beckons me and so does the moment in which I will get there. Fuck you Monsanto, you and your chemical bull shit that poisons us all. There is a card upon which a devil and the joker combined laugh at your attempts to shut the farmers down, Monsanto. A duo arises for each person you attack with your army of lawyers and Gestapo dance. Now we take your shit but eventually we retaliate and when that day comes, all the world with burn in order to catch the attention of the masses and draw it to the epicenter where you will fall. We know where you shit, Monsanto, and we are watching you to ensure you get away with the least amount of poison possible outside of the toilet. Fuck you, you sly dog, we are watching you. I know how to eat and I get to decide where from; so do we all. Back off of my stomach and mouth or I will begin to use my mind and hands to fight back.

Laugh Long, Love Life,

Ryan Versaw    

A Space Inside My Head

There is a space inside my head and that space belongs to Versaw. Within this space is a natural sulphuric spring pumping into an old wash tub next to the Dolorous River. Beside this spring is a bench I sit upon with a naughty lass over my knee, a lass that once labeled me a bitch, breathing heavily and moaning as I paddled her with my right hand and stroked her lower back with my left. Beginning with her far buttock, I struck her softest parts in ten blow increments and moved from the top of her cheek to the bottom. By the time I had reached the bottom of her right thigh she was squirming and heaving her chest in a struggle to breath between the tears. She head held up surprisingly well considering she and withstood a severe paddling during which two correction stops were necessary. For reaching over her shoulder and attempting to shield herself from the onslaught of my angry palm, I struck each thigh, ten times and counted each stroke. Her cries echoed above even the current of the mud brown river and after a second volley and threat of the belt she conceded to keep her hands on the bench to her spanker's left. 

I stroked the Cecilian skin on her lower back and began to battle with the Dolorous River on sound superiority--flowing water verses spanking and cries of erotic pain. By the middle of her left cheek her moans quickly turned to tears and by the time I reached her left thigh she had begun to squirms and lament continuously. She burst into tears to show her near excruciating pain mixing with erotic pleasure of her skin as I stroke her spine. Wind chimed in to compete with her cries and pleas and the air and river combined threatened to overwhelm the pair of us until the moment she climaxed in nervous tolerance of pain and reached back for the third time since her punishment began. I shook my head with a smile that signaled my satisfaction at having provoked a demand for more pain. With a hug, I slipped my left hand down to the button of her jeans and opened the snap. As I dropped the zipper she looked upward in embarrassment.

"Drop those jeans," I commanded.

Submissively she whined but obeyed. This time I guided her over the wooden bench, carved out of a halved pine trunk, right next to the spring. Overwhelming scents of feminine allure emanated from her in various places and began to surround me. Her luscious lips made the shape of letter fifteen of the alphabet as I messaged her shoulders and upper back until once again moving south. She carried a bashful look in her eye when I removed my belt and began to wrap part of it around the hand gripping the buckle. With my right elbow at and perfect square angle, I lifted my hand above my right shoulder until the flexible length of leather rested upon my back. She hid her eyes until the moment I brought the belt down upon her in an arc.

to be continued           

Daydreaming, Towers, and Skies

So today I finds myself walking down a street called Pinon while picturing a tower surrounded by dark, empty sky and trying to decide what to fill it with with. At once my mind fills with fireworks of all varieties, displays, and arrays of color. Orbs of light that speed like comets circle the tower I stand in with my arms holding onto Arielle like sustaining reality depended upon it. Wind begins to blow with intensity measureed only by a flashbulb of memory but echoing like film of crystal clarity as if it where a flashback. in a blur red lips, flapping skirts, exploding fireworks, barrages of light of multiple colors, and gigantic streaks of fire entering our peripherals from left to right. Such is only the beginning of a beautiful echo from a dream that flows through fissures in my thoughts until branching out far from their point of origin. A cloud descends and I back out of this memory for now.