tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38238685482934663182024-03-19T23:05:58.713-07:00manxSame Old RainRickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-66962065379199683102011-01-10T19:41:00.000-08:002011-01-10T19:41:34.388-08:00Small<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6v3NeFb3qOgORxfKUReKG-wTUmu9AGdQZe0nPGnB9gNtXsAFYmbHsR_FiaNOAoRi_6s-4Ep0Y96lGDnVnqvoaz7ChWe4xvzbxEHAxeamgQT4H_CDklKSgW1WpHn9Svhn3W7poMPYqnw/s1600/2ahtzza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6v3NeFb3qOgORxfKUReKG-wTUmu9AGdQZe0nPGnB9gNtXsAFYmbHsR_FiaNOAoRi_6s-4Ep0Y96lGDnVnqvoaz7ChWe4xvzbxEHAxeamgQT4H_CDklKSgW1WpHn9Svhn3W7poMPYqnw/s320/2ahtzza.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I feel small<br />
atom small<br />
no, smaller<br />
<br />
what's smaller than an quark?<br />
can a quark<br />
slip through quantum?<br />
are black holes<br />
mouse holes?<br />
or grand canyons?<br />
<br />
what's beyond the small?<br />
<br />
I want to disappear<br />
I need<br />
to disappear<br />
<br />
into the dense nothing<br />
<br />
<br />
what will I find there?<br />
me?<br />
or just the beginning of nothing?<br />
<br />
I feel myself growing smaller<br />
can you tell?<br />
<br />
here I go<br />
<br />
*poof*Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-82342991563763944032010-12-22T22:02:00.000-08:002010-12-22T22:02:16.000-08:00JulieThis is a post I published long ago. Julie died last Thursday. Age 51 I hear she weighed 80pounds. <br />
She just ran out of fight, I imagine.<br />
Goodbye Julie<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Do you remember someone special in your youth? One you thought hung the moon and you wondered why everyone else couldn't see it. I thought this of Julie. I wish you well wherever you are.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirmRrLVlvthamVJVxBMwX-Y_rDd0iJFBO5CV9CT_n4WiTTZfG3EJd7EUV_YI9udy9AQxTyk6_utwbrkgTmmB7eedWb0niDqBkcyqu5yEZNctGgm9L_pWgfICE_5RFnNGXY5Ijv1uZmKlQ/s1600-h/42-15251981.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299562847026343298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirmRrLVlvthamVJVxBMwX-Y_rDd0iJFBO5CV9CT_n4WiTTZfG3EJd7EUV_YI9udy9AQxTyk6_utwbrkgTmmB7eedWb0niDqBkcyqu5yEZNctGgm9L_pWgfICE_5RFnNGXY5Ijv1uZmKlQ/s320/42-15251981.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 216px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div><br />
<em>tomatoes are cheaper<br />
tomatoes are cheaper</em></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div><br />
she chirped<br />
skipping past my house<br />
her laugh prodding others</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>in class<br />
at ballgames<br />
parties and such<br />
she drew me<br />
load and lock</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>but unnoticed<br />
went I,<br />
or mostly so,<br />
giggles and elbows<br />
only</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>there was history<br />
dark<br />
I could tell<br />
and that<br />
I think, the draw</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>she saw, I think,<br />
my knowing<br />
for I looked past<br />
her beauty<br />
past her shield<br />
past yesterday</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>I wanted so<br />
to protect<br />
she wanted<br />
destruction only.<br />
victory was hers<br />
in dash</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>wagons loaded<br />
for the goldfields<br />
she found only<br />
needles and loops.<br />
fool's gold for<br />
cheerleaders<br />
with white tender thighs</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>cruel lords<br />
mastered her desire;<br />
less than nothing,<br />
for it made<br />
her complete</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>last I heard<br />
bridges for roofs<br />
thieves<br />
for company<br />
whiskey<br />
for yesterday<br />
hollow eyes<br />
for tomorrow<br />
lust slaked<br />
at last</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>friends that were<br />
tho I doubt,<br />
say no hope<br />
we tried, what a mess<br />
as they tip<br />
their pink drinks<br />
somehow purifying<br />
<br />
I'd like to see her again,<br />
to hear her chirp<br />
and laugh<br />
knowing I wont</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>I'd like to see her<br />
just one more time<br />
to say it's ok<br />
we all fucked up.</div><div><br />
pandering ass</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div><em>tomatoes are cheaper<br />
tomatoes are cheaper</em></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>perhaps, maybe<br />
I just liked her<br />
or maybe envied<br />
and admired<br />
her glorious<br />
destruction<br />
with no holding back</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div><em>tomatoes are cheaper</em></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div><br />
~Rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-33387815358296260082010-12-09T01:01:00.000-08:002010-12-09T01:01:17.930-08:00The Trainwreck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqY1c_3kkNnB1rQPCZJu5jpP7Ep17mf5GeCJxKLz0_FAnOCpjjDadMqqPDV_y4HtQPDAyAOTwl3d4PRiGd6HQ3qbNiQy2sWsh4PH1UoSZfasiI-OTo2d_zRYaWf1fHs-RRV-oPCt7xyUM/s1600/endangered_building.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqY1c_3kkNnB1rQPCZJu5jpP7Ep17mf5GeCJxKLz0_FAnOCpjjDadMqqPDV_y4HtQPDAyAOTwl3d4PRiGd6HQ3qbNiQy2sWsh4PH1UoSZfasiI-OTo2d_zRYaWf1fHs-RRV-oPCt7xyUM/s320/endangered_building.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
In a piss-hole town birthed by a railroad that later changed its mind, lies a hell hole of a tavern-<em>no, tavern's</em> <em>too genial a word</em>-a bar called The Depot but The Trainwreck suits it better.<br />
<br />
Just head South to exit 142 and walk one mile north along the tracks. It's accessible by car but you'd get lost anyway and the only parking is in the police station across the street which has housed most of the locals who tried when they had licences.<br />
What it was, was the train depot when there was a train til the train got lost and Elmer Hatcher got an idea and scratched together a few hundred bucks and an old beer sign so he'd have an excuse to not be home.<br />
If there was a front door on the joint, a boxcar hitcher could just jump from one open casket to another, without losing the pallor of death, but the front door was nailed closed as if two exits might be too confusing for the patrons.<br />
<br />
You wont find much of a crowd, nor much of a bartender who is also the cook when she ain't working at the factory. With arms the size of my thighs and a gut that could trampoline you straight to Venus, where they apparently get their TV signal from, she also keeps order by scowl and reputation.<br />
<br />
The first thing you notice when you lower your ass onto a barstool, is that you really lower your ass! Elmer's cousin Bernie built the bar in his garage and the damn fool built it too high. Bernie swore it was regulation height and even accused the behemoth of a bar-maid of sawing off the stools legs some to make people feel smaller.But seeing as they have ten barstools and no two a match, much like my Aunt Mabel's kitchen set she scrounged from Goodwill, it has to be the bar, a jumble of warped plywood and rusty bent nails.<br />
If you stand, your elbows barely reach and your chin-<em>anybody's chin</em>- sits about level with the bar and some of the local women bring pillows. <br />
<br />
You can order scotch or wine but you'll get beer in a warm can cuz the cooler is just an old closet and canned beer is all they got. I once asked the gal what they have on tap and she just squinted mean like and said, "Huh?" as if I had asked her the theory or relativity.<br />
Everyone smokes cuz she smokes and no one knows if it's legal but with one door and no windows the smoke hangs like a blue plague from Moses' staff.<br />
They heat the place with a wood stove and the temperature depends on how many empty cases are available.<br />
The menu offers a choice of three burgers, a fish sandwich, and french fries, all made on the griddle blackened with grease and who knows what, oozing a fatty substance that drips to the floor where cockroaches scuttle merrily across a mystery meat patty that looked like it’d been there awhile. I watched the cook step on it several times and wondered if she'd pick it up, if she could, but finally she just kicked it under the freezer.<br />
<br />
There are two bathrooms just off the bar but it's hard to tell which is which as each has a toilet and a sink but no doors which is just as well as there's no lights either. You can look away when someone goes but you can't help but hear it when the bristly dude two sizes too small for his jeans stands pissing in a toilet as if voyeurism was the provided entertainment. <br />
<br />
If you make your way outside for oxygen or to see if it's still day, you'll most likely see an old Cadillac that in better days had seen many a drug deal, limpin in on one hubcap and a dragging muffler. That would be Martha, Elmer's niece who hauls her not right brother around in the backseat as she goes to the truckstop to peddle hamburgers and fish sandwiches to truckers who don't know any better. She got too big for the seat so they ripped it out and put a small beat up recliner in its place. Billy keeps the burgers warm in the backseat under some old towels.<br />
After the cook/bartender/bouncer/factory worker brought out the orders that had been called in on an old CB radio, the Caddie would lumber in reverse, then creak forward on bedspring shocks towards the unsuspecting truckers.<br />
<br />
On a good day, say a Friday, The Trainwreck might take in forty or fifty dollars and another ten in the jukebox from those that forgot it doesn't work.<br />
It's not Ruby Tuesdays or even the VFW, but it's cheap and the place has character.<br />
Just no Trains or doors.<br />
<br />
(written with a good friend who wishes to remain anonymous-and really, who can blame her?)Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-64597240264822004882010-12-01T10:28:00.000-08:002010-12-01T10:29:21.904-08:00Annie In Wonderland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLsGue_F9IMfEY89NdDd_6-q3Js5isnx_ktzCKjzd2SltULDDZimCzdwKkj8bwsqYOj0jdyMFJYWYB1BfV7kAf8L61RU43cfbujbtry74jGGorJw6zID7ZX1Kqj0_Yj8RhuTo1kpqnGzs/s1600/alice-in-wonderland-the-white-rabbit-close-up-4-2-10-kc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLsGue_F9IMfEY89NdDd_6-q3Js5isnx_ktzCKjzd2SltULDDZimCzdwKkj8bwsqYOj0jdyMFJYWYB1BfV7kAf8L61RU43cfbujbtry74jGGorJw6zID7ZX1Kqj0_Yj8RhuTo1kpqnGzs/s400/alice-in-wonderland-the-white-rabbit-close-up-4-2-10-kc.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">".....the vast opportunities are endless and the growth potential is limitless but the volatility surrounding the structure of our present economy prompts a greater measure of prudence in deciding the direction of our resources at hand....."</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pssst, hey you!</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"me?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-yeah, you. Wanna see somethin'? Follow me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And lacking her normal regard for consequence, she did, right down the rabbit hole.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Falling</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Falling </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Falling</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Annie found herself in a magical realm where meetings no longer existed because everyone knew they were bullshit. She twirled around in her white cotton dress and levitated. The rabbit tapped impatiently on his watch while lamenting "We're late, we're late..." and lead her t</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">hrough a tunnel with gum drop walls and tootsie roll beams...right back to her office.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Wow! Is that my desk? It seems so small without all those papers on it."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The rabbit smiled and looked up at the clock which seemed fixed on 4:00 PM. Annie didn't question its accuracy, just grabbed her purse which seemed heavy with cash, and headed for the door. It was time for her workout. She caught a glimpse of her svelte self mirrored in the window of her Mercedes and smiled slow and wide. She had never looked so fit! Looking young too....25-ish? As the rabbit buffed his pocket watch on the hem of his coat (the better to distract you with, my dear), she decided on a drink instead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Alder Bistro had finally replaced the scrap of awning with a brilliant burgundy ensemble. The place looked positively regal. She was surprised to find Joe Bonamassa's bus parked out front. Poster on the door said Joe was doing a special show tonight only, but no one got the memo and it was quiet, save for a few regulars....just the way Annie liked it. Joe and the band were just finishing "If Heartaches Were Nickles" and he jumped down from the make-shift stage and swaggered towards Annie's reserved table.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Hey, Babe, so glad you could make it! It'd really be great if you could sing a few tunes with us."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Well, maybe just a couple," Annie demurred.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Annie sang harmony to Joe's lead, deliriously happy to do so as the sun set outside the big glass window, turning the gentleman leaning the lamp post into a black silhouette. He drew on his cigarette in long slow pulls and exhaled in paisley ribbons that danced, entwined, to the ballad.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was late when she left, and Leonard Cohen was still slanting his hip to the lamplight. He took her hand and walked her to the Mercedes. "Annie, I've been reading your poetry and quite frankly, I've been tempted to plagiarize. I was wondering if, well...you'd co-author a book with me?" Annie explained to poor Mr. Cohen that she really didn't have much extra time but would give it some thought. Leonard threw his hands back and smiled. "Hey, that's all I can ask. Give me a call when you decide."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Annie got home, the smell of roast greeted her entrance and her husband came out of the kitchen to hand her a glass of wine and let her know it would be a few more minutes on dinner. She would have sat on the couch but her son was vacuuming so she went to take a bath, which was already drawn...surrounded by candles. Singing birds helped her disrobe, dropping her clothes amongst the rose petals which covered the floor. Just as she began to doze in the warm water, she felt herself drifting up...</span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">up</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><em>up</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><em>up</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"....and that's why the sensible approach is careful prudence. The Turner proposal will just have to wait. any questions?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Annie looked around the room and sniffed hard for roast. She felt her hips, grimaced, and looked to the clock that said 10:15 AM. She then ambled to the window to looked for Joe's bus, but all she saw was a white rabbit, decidedly glancing her way, as he shit on her Ford and disappeared into the alley.</span>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-65744603951523804082010-11-29T02:56:00.000-08:002010-11-29T02:56:00.491-08:00Dead JimmieSo one day i says to God<br />
<em>God, if i die</em><br />
<em>-could you give me a couple</em><br />
<em>Hours warning?</em><br />
<em>-Kinda got some things i need </em><br />
<em>To clean up</em><br />
<br />
He didnt answer<br />
Rarely does<br />
<br />
But you wonder,<br />
You know?<br />
That weird lump<br />
The dizzy spells<br />
<br />
So anyways,<br />
There i was<br />
Minding my own business<br />
While i slept<br />
When up walks jimmie<br />
<br />
Now Jimmie's a fella<br />
I used to work with<br />
Nice guy, bout my age<br />
But had the diabetes bad<br />
<br />
Last i heard they had lopped<br />
Off a foot and were<br />
Thinkin on lessening him some more<br />
<br />
Anyhow, he didn't look good, nope,<br />
None too good<br />
<br />
But here he was<br />
Wake walking in my sleep<br />
And damned if he didnt look good!<br />
Walked like a guy with two perfectly good feet<br />
<br />
I was cleaning a small window<br />
And who knows why and<br />
I say to him<br />
"Jimmie, geez, you're lookin good"<br />
But he just sadly shook his head no<br />
<br />
I could tell he came with a purpose<br />
A message perhaps,<br />
Didn't just happen by,<br />
ya know?<br />
<br />
And he just pointed knowingly<br />
To the ground behind me<br />
<br />
Then i woke up<br />
<br />
Hmmmm<br />
Would God send dead Jimmie<br />
And is Jimmie even dead?<br />
Couldn't imagine God sending live Jimmie, but Jimmie is a mormon so he mighta been on a field trip<br />
Baptizing hitler and dead jews<br />
Who knows<br />
<br />
Couldnt find Jimmie in the obits<br />
But he really wasnt an obits<br />
Kinda guy,<br />
Never even tucked in his shirt<br />
<em>ya know?</em><br />
<br />
Anyway<br />
I feel like shit<br />
But no worse than the shit <br />
I felt like yesterday<br />
And hate to clean house<br />
If Jimmie was just gas<br />
<br />
But if soon you find<br />
A wreath upon my blog<br />
You can't say I wasnt warned<br />
~rickRickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-25670003787891550712010-11-22T20:11:00.000-08:002010-11-22T20:11:26.574-08:00The Way I Know Her<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzTuo9m8JshBYkXY_dFwhmIYVbT4Lfj54pCLFcujiTgiOceD17s9VOb9lUz82KWGPmcsFrIHOnZsGEqpeU94Jp35HvrVxssadM7RTwvtljCutvSF6QxuFB4a_SJJfLwa8h2jiHtLzAHTM/s1600/superior-storm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzTuo9m8JshBYkXY_dFwhmIYVbT4Lfj54pCLFcujiTgiOceD17s9VOb9lUz82KWGPmcsFrIHOnZsGEqpeU94Jp35HvrVxssadM7RTwvtljCutvSF6QxuFB4a_SJJfLwa8h2jiHtLzAHTM/s320/superior-storm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
saw her once in 1973,<br />
she was leanin to the lamp post<br />
when billy fremont came<br />
sauntering past with his<br />
cocky stride.<br />
she was snappin her gum<br />
and never lost a beat as<br />
the corner of her mouth<br />
curled geniusely<br />
<br />
her foot snaked out<br />
and <strong>whamo!</strong><br />
down goes billy in a heap!<br />
but quick as lightnin<br />
ol billy jumps up and bolts<br />
for that dirty bitch<br />
but weren't no need to hurry<br />
cuz she was already there<br />
with her chin up and<br />
her long hair cherokeed<br />
<br />
"whatcha gonna do bout it billy fremont?"<br />
she slung his full name like david's stone<br />
and it sunk deep in his forehead<br />
"well, you'll see. You'll see"<br />
she coughed out a laugh<br />
that echoed through generations<br />
and her gum hit him square in the head as he stomped away<br />
<br />
seen her once in a field<br />
splittin wood<br />
all dressed up as a man,<br />
her sleeves rolled tight<br />
to her biceps, and<br />
that axe starting at the heel<br />
never paused for breath<br />
as nature itself held<br />
hush in the trees<br />
<br />
she once sold the worst car <br />
in the lot<br />
to the man who owned the bank<br />
and all he could do<br />
was pretend it wasn't<br />
<br />
but she has her soft side<br />
<br />
I've seen her walk down<br />
a country lane in May soft<br />
as doves skittered her steps<br />
and sparrows nested<br />
in her locks<br />
<br />
she's written poem after poem<br />
to dragonflies who taxied<br />
soft breezes<br />
to her curling fingers<br />
<br />
I've seen her stroke<br />
the marigolds gently<br />
and tickle the honey bee's whisker<br />
while the sun caressed<br />
her heaving breast<br />
<br />
she has her moods<br />
and they are best avoided<br />
but she has her moments<br />
that should never be sold<br />
<br />
those that think themselves<br />
favoured in her charm<br />
shall surely find the draft<br />
of her bared teeth<br />
and her mercies are <br />
more random<br />
than a coin toss<br />
<br />
if she were any other way<br />
she would be any other lake <br />
than Superior<br />
<strike></strike>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-38546192131756715192010-11-09T02:06:00.000-08:002010-11-09T19:57:31.925-08:00The Poet Will Die<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25HEhWykEkLTtHlDY4sD2ElVrQzLfnVcmSX_qiBjC7z3KtOrVuzlRXiZGMp1pymg34fyQBXbHn5WnuZYDPlR6xbyhtbYuH-OywJFdLOpA1y24znY-C78AiqvfYtAFlUagAOIcbegKSfs/s1600/hopper-sidewalk_poet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25HEhWykEkLTtHlDY4sD2ElVrQzLfnVcmSX_qiBjC7z3KtOrVuzlRXiZGMp1pymg34fyQBXbHn5WnuZYDPlR6xbyhtbYuH-OywJFdLOpA1y24znY-C78AiqvfYtAFlUagAOIcbegKSfs/s320/hopper-sidewalk_poet.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There are men and women who climb mountains, row great oceans, and rediscover who gives a shit poles. National Geographic is littered with the remains of the many who never returned. They are called explorers.</div>And they knew the risks.<br />
Many had careers and lives envied of all that knew them, and yet, they trekked., knowing the cost and odds.<br />
See, it's all about vision. Simply put, they could see beyond sales quotas, beyond 401k, beyond the securities of safety and well played. They could see even beyond the mountain, the distant shore, the barren pole. They could see the feel that lies in the doing.<br />
Poets, of which I am not, can see that feel as well, though their range of vision can claim no goal nor know of any great glory.<br />
The K2 that draws them is the life within death, the sorrow in great joy, and the hatred within love. They see the contrast in life and explore it with their blood. <br />
It is never enough for them to love, they must rip the heart from chest and explore the why. And then do it again.<br />
They must get down and dirty with all that plays out before them. Satisfaction in contentment can only mean failure and the beauty of a rose shall not get off so easily while their thorns spill blood.<br />
Therefore, when the hawk soars full of life, the rabbit never dies alone and unseen. When children cry for food and lovers for justice, the poet sees their feel and bleeds their heartache. And a perfect sunrise is only a means to hope for storms.<br />
Bankers shall live to dispense currency to the car mechanic who buys his house to keep his family happy while he repairs the bankers car. It is an age old system of barter that plays out well in love, war and politics. But the poet tumbles free of this circle unable to find purpose or worth in any of it.<br />
And she writes what only she can understand and see, knowing her words will wash away in the clocks of ancient fixture and the speeches of great promise.<br />
Therefore, the poet will die.<br />
<br />
<div></div><div style="text-align: center;">in every beast, a hunger grows</div><div style="text-align: center;">to thirst, for tomorrow's fresh dew</div><div style="text-align: center;">and the lover says shall we</div><div style="text-align: center;">in the new fallen rain</div><div style="text-align: center;">and together they walk</div><div style="text-align: center;">but alone<br />
<br />
and a flower blooms</div><div style="text-align: center;">wild and true</div><div style="text-align: center;">where politics bled her men dry</div><div style="text-align: center;">in fateful excursion</div><div style="text-align: center;">leaving their passions</div><div style="text-align: center;">in fields of martyrs passed by<br />
<br />
the sower seeds</div><div style="text-align: center;">while the painter creates</div><div style="text-align: center;">and the violins</div><div style="text-align: center;">spin blue into gold</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">but somewhere below</div><div style="text-align: center;">and beyond the turned earth</div><div style="text-align: center;">beyond the white fields of fresh snow<br />
where new borns dredge<br />
the souls of before</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">they must sing a new song</div><div style="text-align: center;"> of great old<br />
<br />
and this story new</div><div style="text-align: center;">it must be told</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">in a thousand</div><div style="text-align: center;">shades of pain bourne</div><div style="text-align: center;">bled from the prick<br />
she knew in great need<br />
to balance the weight</div><div style="text-align: center;">of her scorn<br />
and<br />
the poet will kill her</div><div style="text-align: center;">to die his sweet self</div><div style="text-align: center;">in the murder</div><div style="text-align: center;">that no one shall mourn<br />
<br />
so here and now</div><div style="text-align: center;">let's drink to he</div><div style="text-align: center;">and her, and all</div><div style="text-align: center;">that ever they see</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">for tomorrow, the poet</div><div style="text-align: center;">shall surely die</div><div style="text-align: center;">so tonight</div><div style="text-align: center;">let's just let him be</div><div style="text-align: center;">~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-37767323122603043912010-11-03T21:55:00.000-07:002010-11-03T21:55:55.140-07:00Gimme Shelter<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiS0cPoScZk3PLauJxyhXczwqLkR-Zw1gbC426h3G_MFEZqzbgJgc1m5tyCU_E5A8p0xqx0edkhqBHYbvbL_fAIsfCIN8-Ono4hehAc6ZsYhyphenhyphen33sMp1tNzErzG1rADkZlGwUueMf8vVYQ/s1600/1TVK4TCATJYNZ9CAYVA70GCAOR1Q2ICAXFET75CAZSMFENCAENHFDOCALER0MXCAWICXG8CAYBGJC9CA4NQ4FLCALGP114CA9EYIXQCAE3LAJJCADR52FVCA17NBB8CAA3NWIVCAOF2T77CAYOCGBICA0B3XRT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiS0cPoScZk3PLauJxyhXczwqLkR-Zw1gbC426h3G_MFEZqzbgJgc1m5tyCU_E5A8p0xqx0edkhqBHYbvbL_fAIsfCIN8-Ono4hehAc6ZsYhyphenhyphen33sMp1tNzErzG1rADkZlGwUueMf8vVYQ/s1600/1TVK4TCATJYNZ9CAYVA70GCAOR1Q2ICAXFET75CAZSMFENCAENHFDOCALER0MXCAWICXG8CAYBGJC9CA4NQ4FLCALGP114CA9EYIXQCAE3LAJJCADR52FVCA17NBB8CAA3NWIVCAOF2T77CAYOCGBICA0B3XRT.jpg" /></a></div>Billy Hobart steps gingerly to the porch<br />
as the frightened screen door<br />
screams from his feeble grip<br />
shifting the dog into panic<br />
<br />
<br />
looking to the pasture,<br />
he spots the chestnut mare<br />
looking back, wild-eyed,<br />
her mane a thousand crazy<br />
kite strings<br />
<br />
as the barn door slaps BANG!<br />
on its twisting hinges,<br />
his cap takes flight<br />
chasing Miss Lucy's<br />
shit green garbage can<br />
down the drive<br />
<br />
far out to sea,<br />
the fishing has been fair, but now<br />
Tom Patterson stares narrow-eyed<br />
through the helpless wipers<br />
as Jack sits the little stove<br />
two-handing his coffee cup,<br />
leg over knee, on the folding chair<br />
<br />
the rollers have grown teeth,<br />
swagger, and two fish<br />
in the water dance wildly<br />
on their cable, saying<br />
<em>as if!</em><br />
<br />
list and wallow?<br />
run and swamp?<br />
or dare to luff?<br />
<br />
Jack lifts his filthy cap<br />
to rub his brow<br />
and one-eyes Tom<br />
who can only shrug<br />
<br />
Sometimes, a moment too long<br />
is a lifetime too short<br />
<br />
I feel it now<br />
as this blow barrel-rolls<br />
across the ridge and<br />
hammers the hollow flat<br />
<br />
I feel the burp of<br />
the ocean deep<br />
rising and churning<br />
<br />
fences fly<br />
and lights flicker<br />
<br />
windows bend<br />
and rain becomes a million shards<br />
of black stained glass<br />
<br />
somewhere in my memory<br />
there's a time, a place,<br />
a gentle raft on still waters,<br />
a mountain top of soft powder,<br />
a girl lying upon stained linen<br />
smoking my last cigarrette<br />
in the red candle light<br />
<br />
I don't wish the storm away,<br />
wouldn't purchase promise<br />
if it sold two for a quarter<br />
<br />
but here<br />
in the midst of the rage,<br />
in the belly<br />
of the storm,<br />
just before I make my last chance run,<br />
for just a moment<br />
<br />
gimme shelter<br />
<br />
<br />
~rickRickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-10201237558757208762010-10-31T03:27:00.000-07:002010-11-01T17:19:00.667-07:00The Search For The Perfect Perfume<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0L3cxg4486pN2uQwfI-o-5aAIAnv8rZgbxTt-jz2mGFPzLDfzFmxvSS__R-aq4h-st_ryzHoyaabR_yhp85rOPtEVZlmVRoKQAFrCQQSApqBYPiZZ82oq0eKp1DPucH8rypXnJYcQ1F0/s1600/The_White_Raven_by_WhiteRaven90.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0L3cxg4486pN2uQwfI-o-5aAIAnv8rZgbxTt-jz2mGFPzLDfzFmxvSS__R-aq4h-st_ryzHoyaabR_yhp85rOPtEVZlmVRoKQAFrCQQSApqBYPiZZ82oq0eKp1DPucH8rypXnJYcQ1F0/s320/The_White_Raven_by_WhiteRaven90.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Dear Reader, This is a very long piece and I expect no one, not even my most faithful to read it. I've been writing some longer prose lately and I just put it out here to be out here. Please feel free to move past it.~rick<br />
<br />
<br />
Do you remember the smell of the cafeteria when you walked down that long sloping narrow white-tiled hall after mornings last class? When the lunch ladies giggled in the kitchen and recess bled through the tiny windows?<br />
The smell that delighted rather than repulsed as the day before?<br />
The plain round ladies in puke yellow dresses giggle because just one of them, just last night, got good and fucked and the infection spread among the brood like candy from the Christmas parade with every child scrambling for a taste.<br />
No broccoli today and extra sugar in the Kool Aid. Do you remember?<br />
Recess was five minutes longer.<br />
<br />
Daddy's old spice after Tuesday night's shower.<br />
Momma's kitchen on Thanksgiving morning while Macy's convinced you, you were really there.<br />
Grandpa's pipe and the cloud that framed his smile.<br />
<br />
And that cute brown haired girl who never spoke but sat in front of you in English class. How the stirred air awoke you when she returned from bathroom break, and how your jeans lifted and twitched.<br />
The July hay field you peddled past on the way to dreams just over the rise.<br />
<br />
And Bethany, on the shore of that autumn lake with the pretty name. Deep under the moon, deep into the night, deep into her. Your senses were filled with the flow of magic. the water, her hair, her kiss, her moisture, all coming together in a fragrance that would shame April lilacs.<br />
All of these, and more. Making perfect sense as one.<br />
That's how the perfume was described.<br />
<br />
I had been walking through the forest when the white raven came from behind me and settled on the limb where she became the woman.<br />
<br />
Like jack while on a mission of simple survival, suddenly confronted with the notion that giant beanstalks laddering to golden eggs really can exist, if only we dare, I sought a price.<br />
She cackled from the limb supporting her perch.<br />
"Why, child, the only price is your ability to achieve."<br />
And with that, she tossed it to my reaching hands and flew away.<br />
I sat down against the tree to study it.<br />
Orb shaped it was, neither heavy nor light. It just was, as if beyond the possibility of gravity.<br />
I held it to my nose.<br />
No roasting turkey<br />
No old spice<br />
No Bethany's sweet cum.<br />
Just a ball full of nothing.<br />
<br />
I began to peel the layers away one by one and one by one they disappeared but the orb never grew smaller, and each layer, once free, grew wings and flitted out of sight.<br />
I grew restless and walked but couldn't remember where or why. I just wandered the forest releasing magic butterflies into the trees.<br />
As deeper I trod, the forest grew deeper as well and dusk settled on my efforts.<br />
Just as dark was reaching its apex, I stepped into a small clearing of light.<br />
In the middle of this light was an ancient sage sitting at a small primitive table mixing a potion.. His white hair curled and tangled secrets deep in its wild weave. His white beard rested his lap. His fingers stretched and knotted like oak branches steady as their roots.<br />
Above him, hung a tiny moon watching over his shoulder, with sleepy eyes.<br />
Without so much as a glance, he spoke.<br />
"What is it you seek, so deep in the forest?"<br />
I held out the magical orb.<br />
<br />
"I seek what lies within."<br />
"Hmmmm, yes, a noble desire no doubt."<br />
He lifted the glass holding the potion and one-eyed it through his tiny glasses. Then, as if truly curious, he asked, "What would you do with it, should you achieve it?"<br />
The answer required no thought.<br />
"Just know it."<br />
His moon had grown dimmer so he reached and stroked it gently and fresh light covered our conversation.<br />
The sage then set the glass back on the table and took the orb from my hands. He turned it and studied it.<br />
"The trick," he said, slow and deliberately. "Is to open it from the inside out." Then he handed it back to me and resumed mixing.<br />
"Well, how do you do that?"<br />
With no change of expression he replied, "You must love it before you have it."<br />
I thought for a moment but only grew more confused. "How can you love something you've never known?"<br />
"Ah," he raised a long gnarled finger. "That is what you must learn."<br />
I paused in frustration.<br />
"Um, ok -how do i learn it?"<br />
Finally, he smiled slightly and looked up.<br />
"Why, my boy, you already have."<br />
Then he leaned back and reached up to stroke his moon again as he studied me. He then leaned forward and rested his chin on his closed fist before asking, "That girl, the one at the lake long ago, did you love the scent before you knew the moment?"<br />
It didn't even strike me as odd he should know.<br />
"I did not know the scent til then."<br />
He threw his hands open and his eyes twinkled in the lenses. "Precisely!"<br />
Then he continued. "And your fathers after shave, how many times did you smell it before you found it lovely?"<br />
I shrugged and tilted my head.<br />
"Just once, I guess."<br />
He leaned far forward and thrust a crooked finger at me.<br />
"Right again! Inside out."<br />
I squatted down before him and rolled the orb in my hands.<br />
"You speak in the way of wisdom," said I, "but still my dilemma remains."<br />
He lifted the glass once more, eyed it carefully, then set it down and pushed it towards me.<br />
I looked at his deep eyes, ancient lines, and then he whispered, "You need to go."<br />
I looked around at the walls of thick black and wondered, <em>go where?</em><br />
He tapped the rim of the glass.<br />
"Here."<br />
<br />
I dipped my finger into the clear liquid, brought it to my lips as he watched expectantly. There was no taste, no strange sensation, and his eyes closed gently as he nodded.<br />
I lifted the glass and drank it dry.<br />
As I felt nothing new or queer, I raised my palms wide in silent ask. <br />
The old man's eyes narrowed kindly and he pointed over my shoulder. I turned to look and my eyes fell upon a trail of light through the darkness. I quickly turned back to ask the sage of it, but he was gone, along with his moon.<br />
All that existed was black nothing and the trail of light, which I chose to explore.<br />
I walked only a short time before coming upon another trail of light to the left. I entered it, and immediately found myself upon the shores of a long ago lake. I followed a familiar scent along the moonlit beach and found Bethany, in her youth, lying upon the sand naked, as she masturbated to the rhythm of the waves.<br />
I walked to her, to ask her why she was alone.<br />
Her eyes were closed and when I reached down to touch her, she turned to tiny white wings and fluttered away.<br />
I smelled the damp sand, tasted it, hoping for a trace,<br />
But there was none.<br />
<br />
The darkness started to gather and close around me, threatening to swallow me whole so I turned and rushed to stay ahead of it, back to the original trail. When it I achieved, the only light I could find was to my left.<br />
As I followed it, I watched behind me as the darkness followed my steps.<br />
Not long after, I found a trail to my right and turned into it, the darkness waiting where I left it like a well trained butler.<br />
Once in the trail, I came upon a round middle-aged woman upon a bed. She was wearing only a hairnet as her squash coloured dress hung from the bedpost. She was on all fours and a fat ugly man was fucking her hard. <br />
She squealed and sloshed as he smoked a cigar and drank a can of beer. She reached between her legs to help herself along as the fat bastard watched baseball on the TV in the corner. He slapped her ass hard when Roger Maris got a double, and his dick must have grown two inches because she came in a wild flood just as the winning run scored.<br />
I walked closer to ask why this made for better smells in cafeterias, but they grew wings and off they flew into the darkness before I could smell any pizza or a graper kool-aid.<br />
This journey continued and repeated until the trails ran out and all my memories of lovely fragrances had been tarnished.<br />
The only spot of light remaining was where I stood. I held the still many-layered orb in my hand and decided the woman had deceived me for her own amusement. There was no flawless perfume, no perfect fragrance, and no perfect memory.<br />
Then the light at my feet rose in a gentle bloom and I found myself at an all too familiar tree. Looking up, I watched a white raven land on a limb I recognized, and the white raven became her once again.<br />
She smiled and spoke.<br />
"Did you achieve?"<br />
I held the orb up.<br />
She pretended a frown and said, "What seems to be the trouble?"<br />
I turned my eyes to it and replied, "It seems whenever I peel a layer away, a new one grows within."<br />
"That's true," She offered. "Each layer is a moment and for each moment past, a new moment is born."<br />
"So," I puzzled, looking up to her, "The riddle has no solution."<br />
She said nothing but bent down low and softly blew upon the orb.<br />
Instantly the air was filled with white wings that lifted and landed among the branches of the forest. Above her head I could see the sun and moon standing side by side. Rain fell from a starlit sky while soft white clouds swirled through the trees.<br />
I looked into my hands and the orb was gone. I had felt nothing. But then the most beautiful fragrance well beyond imagination filled my being and filled the forest.<br />
I smiled as never before and looked up to the she-raven.<br />
"Disappointed?" She asked<br />
"No," I answered. "Pleased beyond all hope. Tell me, what do you call it?"<br />
"I call it "Now"<br />
And with that she changed again and joined the other moments in the trees.Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-4828689778172538272010-10-29T02:30:00.000-07:002010-10-29T02:30:00.306-07:00My Colours<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJP-Sc9Fb76Ivmlgw6mskWu5NoYwSJCnVQJ5MDwhOdixS4uBLK5VJbdmJR0_0JZxYksBsfUKS5pEID5f-4FJjvhDkJl8gmecwdsrGSpCimJ3leabwF1OSWXfx11vJzsRdrbX6ruIkpMQ/s1600/11250665955W0juH.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522885695399454914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJP-Sc9Fb76Ivmlgw6mskWu5NoYwSJCnVQJ5MDwhOdixS4uBLK5VJbdmJR0_0JZxYksBsfUKS5pEID5f-4FJjvhDkJl8gmecwdsrGSpCimJ3leabwF1OSWXfx11vJzsRdrbX6ruIkpMQ/s400/11250665955W0juH.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I wish I could swim<br />or even float as flotsam<br />in the colours of my life<br /><br />not as grandeur ocean<br />or rolling, churning river<br />but as hurricane,<br />me, the all seeing eye<br /><br />greens and burgundies<br />aqua and sunset<br />as up I carry<br />in a spiral trail of magic<br /><br />i would float on my back<br />and perhaps, understand<br />the blend and finish<br />of my new colour<br />collage<br /><br />from there, up high<br />I could spin miracles<br />to the perfect twirl<br />and paint you happy<br /><br />but i flounder and flail<br />in a hopeless kick<br />and broken stroke<br />while the mess rains heavy<br />as bent rusty nails<br /><br />how they tried,<br />those that loved me<br />to soothe and gentle<br />in demonstrated ease<br /><br />just a little kick, they smile<br />-easy strokes,<br />be one with the moment<br />you swim in<br /><br />and I try<br />God help me, I do<br /><br />but I sink as before<br />as the colours explode into shrapnel<br />obliterating the cascade<br />I dreamed of<br />when my youth<br />knew imagined success</div><div>through perfect</div><div>naivety</div><div> </div><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-25523544921706456222010-10-25T02:11:00.000-07:002010-10-25T02:11:00.258-07:00Silent Observer<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUDEAXxX2UNPLM-ZKYxxlk3cIV5VkvlTszgFacTJDgz1ZNNjRzNiHDGvFtF747M1GmK14XlgIFM8aTBANCwO0ahursSEyxSGTbBJXsKfF30dbPanZrH0RxcV-ZNOCinAJD0btibq2WHE/s1600/windrush_river_burford.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530721461820829394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUDEAXxX2UNPLM-ZKYxxlk3cIV5VkvlTszgFacTJDgz1ZNNjRzNiHDGvFtF747M1GmK14XlgIFM8aTBANCwO0ahursSEyxSGTbBJXsKfF30dbPanZrH0RxcV-ZNOCinAJD0btibq2WHE/s400/windrush_river_burford.jpg" /></a><br /><div>was the time<br />when rivers knew my stones<br />from troubled fingers,<br />the wiggle of my bait<br />from greedy want, and<br />the trespass<br />of my feet, all five-buckle boots<br /><em>trample and clang</em><br /><br />and too, the woods of September<br />knew my stick<br />in crooked drag<br />and daring poke<br /><br />I swung at the clouds<br />challenged the storms<br />sang to the moon, and<br />danced to ideas<br />stolen from generations<br />of long forgotten fools<br /><br />but not now<br />-not today<br /><br />today I ghost,<br />a watcher, mere<br />silent observer<br /><br />this I do, with tremble and quake<br />seeking a new brand of comfort<br /><br />the stones I threw<br />and side-winder skipped<br />chased herons from the quiet, and<br />birds became mimes<br />to my terminator steps<br /><br />and choir to the moon<br />draws only the applause of sad dust<br />while the clouds I swing at<br />water another man's tulips<br /><br />but now, maybe,<br />if tenderly I step, and<br />carefully I observe while<br />reaching into my ribs<br />to stretch my soul wide<br />to the quiet placement<br />of motion without man,<br />then perhaps,<br />a new comfort will find room,<br />more five and dime<br />than taco laced strip malls<br /><br />so hush, says the gentle river<br />gliding the day<br /><em>shhhh,</em><br />says the quiet woods<br />laying me upon it's<br />canvas of paupers carpet<br /><br />let us paint you<br />in the light of concede<br />to a way you need know<br />to truly know us<br /><br />let us drift you, say they, to<br />a new language<br />that rush can never learn<br />from passing clouds</div><br /><div> we will be your gait<br />as we blend your thoughts<br />into dreams you can't see<br />and songs you can't hear<br />in the silence of your noise<br /><br />I know,<br />this silent passage<br />will not grant me<br />my hearts desire<br />nor make my moon fuller<br /><br />it will not be alchemist<br />to my stew of mistakes<br />nor keep me<br />from tomorrow's fresh madness<br /><br />I simply choose to accept<br />the peace it offers today<br />if only I shadow it<br />a silent observer<br /><br />so<br />I surrender the sword<br />without ceremony<br />or honour<br />to be silent observer,<br />the careful watcher, one<br />naked in spirit, needing<br />the ancient wisdom<br />quiet might bring </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick<br /></div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-30087926477507285482010-10-20T18:29:00.000-07:002010-10-20T19:55:30.874-07:00Sweeping<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvEbQXP7ZHr_kFxDjvu8cywsjNci8PySIKectUjGLWPVwI41taJQyerxwUdUmHofeBteF0NDfH9reI3Q0KOckTLK-oyLk7oO1RuP7rRboFRL8ld1WHsnXRvXYcjxLndnxsCpaqX0Ht7zs/s1600/eb301I09tree.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 397px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530325377216072082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvEbQXP7ZHr_kFxDjvu8cywsjNci8PySIKectUjGLWPVwI41taJQyerxwUdUmHofeBteF0NDfH9reI3Q0KOckTLK-oyLk7oO1RuP7rRboFRL8ld1WHsnXRvXYcjxLndnxsCpaqX0Ht7zs/s400/eb301I09tree.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Whsht whsht whsht </div><br /><div>The sun kaleidoscopes the maple</div><div>into orgasmic explosion<br />sending life upon death</div><div>through the vacant street</div><br /><div>in 1968, his son met jimi hendrix<br />in Da Nang, but<br />only the music returned</div><div>giving voice<br />to a folded flag<br /><br />wushhh wuushh wushhh<br /><br />lost a sister in '73 in the<br />damnedest wreck clay county<br />never did see, and<br /><br />A maple leaf falls </div><div>in twist and float<br />but settles short of</div><div>the potter's field<br />where it's too sad<br />for red to die<br /><br />Wushhh wushhh wushhh<br />sweeps the broom</div><div>as Tom's mail truck</div><div>rounds the corner</div><div>unnoticed</div><div>by the stillest of motion</div><br /><div></div><div>whsht whsht whsht</div><br /><div></div><div>Mary passed in '87 from the cancer</div><div>-brother earl, two years later</div><div>when his heart paused</div><div>a moment too long</div><div>over the snow shovel</div><br /><div></div><div>cars pass, some wave</div><div>some stare</div><div>a few understand</div><div>and most ignore</div><div>in kindness</div><br /><div></div><div>but it matters not to him</div><br /><div></div><div>he who</div><div>at first light sidles down</div><div>the porch steps</div><div>clutching his purpose,</div><div>the only one he can keep alive</div><br /><div></div><div>and the leaves fall</div><div>and the wind laughs</div><div>and the town cries</div><div>for greater recognition, but</div><br /><div></div><div>time means nothing here</div><div>having been swallowed whole</div><div>by the seasons of his passing</div><div>and the cold hand of loneliness</div><br /><div></div><div>so all day long he sweeps</div><div>that same God damned spot </div><div>of clean dirt</div><div>like an upside down grave</div><div>he can't gain entrance to</div><br /><div></div><div>and the children pass</div><div>to school </div><div>and back</div><div>quiet feared and wild-eyed</div><br /><div></div><div>while Marge Thompson</div><div>sips her coffee while</div><div>leaning to her kitchen window </div><div>remembering</div><div>to when the maple was a sapling</div><div>and hope sang harmony</div><div>over green grass seeding love</div><br /><div></div><div>whsht whsht whsht</div><div> </div><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-87597855224409651982010-10-18T01:01:00.000-07:002010-10-18T01:01:00.399-07:00Snow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRxJqJGTv0DU9rGk6PPGKjHXcMhFY-1F7-8d_hHcCa-JGZLrmxQpOJSWaSMSy09gIsyE-9fbRn6uzadg1pd5jH2kuXQYCqMan6vKuR3UJdDjy9tzMDtz9y8vt5Gzd2PysbJDcgl0zSWY/s1600/snow.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524734685788480834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRxJqJGTv0DU9rGk6PPGKjHXcMhFY-1F7-8d_hHcCa-JGZLrmxQpOJSWaSMSy09gIsyE-9fbRn6uzadg1pd5jH2kuXQYCqMan6vKuR3UJdDjy9tzMDtz9y8vt5Gzd2PysbJDcgl0zSWY/s400/snow.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Oh sky of grey broken tender<br />Do you feel my beg?<br />Feast upon my longing?<br /><br />Old friend, season of my song<br />Have we not earned each other?<br /><br />Roofs are for raindrops and<br />Dream weaver sleep while<br />Fires tend the fearful's<br />Broken heart<br /><br />But you and I, old friend<br />Kindle a different passage<br />Where loneliness makes trump<br />And comfort settles within<br /><br />So here i am<br />And there you are<br />One losing purpose<br />Without the other<br /><br />So hush the pines<br />Who baby bird-like<br />cry for their supper<br /><br />Drift the frozen lake<br />That cracks in flex<br />Prepared for cover<br /><br />The owls wait for<br />Your moonlight glow<br />And still, telling shadows<br /><br />We all wait, old friend<br />As you ponder your mood<br /><br />I am here, in the field of wait<br />Alone and jacketed<br />Longing for the cleanse<br />Only you, old friend,<br />Can offer<br /><br />Hear my longing<br />As i walk the alone trail<br />I turn my eyes to you<br />Throw my arms wide<br />To your roll and dark billow<br />And bend the knee<br />In pleading obeisance<br /><br />Snow, old friend<br />Snow </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-20705022616604585982010-10-16T01:43:00.000-07:002010-10-16T01:43:00.448-07:00Making Do<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL9gHYm4Nl_fpyforugK5G7VrVGRVr3-H_fgdAnXfqKU9qXrQ55-ShIEFVQ1dpEjhDtBGAHTYQWgd_RRJnupTp7NQo9m6kVDIctPWbt_h7fr5OBb03lz3zFwQZOzLdibQv66_bX7Bny3s/s1600/homeless_tcm6-28210.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522889482095479122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL9gHYm4Nl_fpyforugK5G7VrVGRVr3-H_fgdAnXfqKU9qXrQ55-ShIEFVQ1dpEjhDtBGAHTYQWgd_RRJnupTp7NQo9m6kVDIctPWbt_h7fr5OBb03lz3zFwQZOzLdibQv66_bX7Bny3s/s400/homeless_tcm6-28210.jpg" /></a><br /><div>The man at the corner<br />sells stolen roses<br />a dog may have pissed on<br /><br />I bought three for you<br /><br />remember the Chinese place,<br />where the cook smoked<br />to keep the flies miserable?<br />you kissed me first there<br /><br />I sang you a song<br />from the balcony<br />of super eight<br />and wrote you a sonnet<br />when the ball game was cancelled<br /><br />your mother blushes<br />when I kiss her hand<br />with twinkle and smile<br />while your father beams<br />to my adventures and travels<br />from his lazy recliner,<br />seeming quite weary of his fat ass<br /><br />all in all, I've loved you well<br />wouldn't you say?<br /><br />but if i could<br />love another<br />whose breasts stood taller and mightier<br />whose lips fountained red in full bloom<br />whose hair sailed the milky way<br />in fragrant mist<br /><br />and if I could<br />win the Pulitzer<br />sit upon senator's thrones<br />win the royal cup or<br />save my soul<br />from the heart of hell<br />by simply throwing your mother in<br />my place<br /><br />the man on the corner<br />would be one dollar poorer<br />and the Chinese fly factory<br />a table richer<br />while your father's fat ass<br />mourned, for his supper</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-59324028901729439042010-10-12T01:19:00.000-07:002010-10-12T01:19:00.884-07:00Civil Wars<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjjk1HVNhAnnxC4XtLRaPZTuwqDWEf_medcCRrqhPKPQWRkj-iVsW3PXvPfioNzgGhGbBSt2_KSCKMq24X8JMmtgt7oXGUwnrI-NOJeN1NGQPJUQ_9mHg0h7JSQZJtI2UMMhRDg6A5v0/s1600/First%2520Manassas%2520Battle%2520-%2520Kurz%2520&%2520Allison%2520Litho,%2520circ%25201889-794506.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 274px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516204976028555906" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjjk1HVNhAnnxC4XtLRaPZTuwqDWEf_medcCRrqhPKPQWRkj-iVsW3PXvPfioNzgGhGbBSt2_KSCKMq24X8JMmtgt7oXGUwnrI-NOJeN1NGQPJUQ_9mHg0h7JSQZJtI2UMMhRDg6A5v0/s400/First%2520Manassas%2520Battle%2520-%2520Kurz%2520&%2520Allison%2520Litho,%2520circ%25201889-794506.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Up high on the ridge, i watched<br />As two hawks battled<br />For supremacy</div><br /><div><br />While<br />Just down the line,<br />The crows gathered to witness<br />Wearing the petticoats<br />Of first Manassas<br /><br />Down here, in the cheap seats,<br />Twenty hummingbirds<br />warred over nectar for fifty<br />While the ants thieved<br />And the cat watched<br /><br />A car grinds down<br />The drive way, flags waving.<br />It's Mr. brown bearing gifts as he tells me the evils</div><div>Of casting my vote for Mrs. Green<br /><br />This all i ponder<br />From a seat of ease<br />As I have no one<br />To overthrow<br /><br />I look to the horses as<br />Surely a worthy foe<br />But hay and flies<br />Seem a poor booty<br /><br />I look into the window<br />To more cats<br />Occupied in a fight<br />Not worthy of my join<br /><br />My wife comes out<br />But that battle<br />Was Korea'd long ago </div><div>And we honour the DMZ<br /><br />The dog barks<br />At a plastic bag<br />Ghosted in the autumn breeze<br /><br />"shut up stupid!"<br /><br />The dog retreats<br />Victory is mine</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-19965442088150789812010-10-08T02:35:00.000-07:002010-10-08T02:35:00.646-07:00Cafe<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMy3CcFexjItG8_2gh0t0eKcubgfGtvak1KX5vxja7ALrPfJiLOXo3YEMVH7XeTx-oXUErlgO50JYTvlxHq8PeNCyjM-AGlLKjN5HMoIQZh5UMyhFQ4Hlb-UNH-93iXEY-XTmKcUvyQiM/s1600/3XKL97CAU28D1WCAX5SV41CAU0WINFCA0VFQMJCAGF9A3TCAPYVGNQCA075UQJCAPR5VVFCA2MPU3SCAZU35P6CA5JG69TCA5XXF98CAQPNVKCCAKAU9EECAO9IV6KCA9M4L3OCANCOY63CAESLHSSCAY8Q2NU.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 278px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 181px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516209766283155634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMy3CcFexjItG8_2gh0t0eKcubgfGtvak1KX5vxja7ALrPfJiLOXo3YEMVH7XeTx-oXUErlgO50JYTvlxHq8PeNCyjM-AGlLKjN5HMoIQZh5UMyhFQ4Hlb-UNH-93iXEY-XTmKcUvyQiM/s400/3XKL97CAU28D1WCAX5SV41CAU0WINFCA0VFQMJCAGF9A3TCAPYVGNQCA075UQJCAPR5VVFCA2MPU3SCAZU35P6CA5JG69TCA5XXF98CAQPNVKCCAKAU9EECAO9IV6KCA9M4L3OCANCOY63CAESLHSSCAY8Q2NU.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I don't care for restaurants<br />They're all shoney<br />And crackerbarrel<br /><br />Buffets and chemical cones <img class="gl_spell" border="0" alt="Check Spelling" src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" /><br /><br />The waitresses have clean<br />Green skirts, matching aprons<br />And name tags<br /><br />Tightwad teachers meet here<br />To tip poorly<br />And compliment each other</div><div>For doing their job<br /><br />All the pie crusts are stamped<br />Sysco, and a regional dick<br />Strikes fear, twice a month<br /><br />Some restaurants are lovely<br />And the pies from Deflor's bakery.<br />Teachers don't go here<br />But neither do i<br />As i always feel like I entered<br />A church<br />with too much God<br />And not enough sin<br /><br />But a cafe, yes,<br />Where the cook<br />Bellers and belly laughs<br />At the<br />Clumsy girl<br />Who couldn't get into Shoney's<br />Cuz of that damn tattoo<br /><br />She's wearin jeans<br />As full of holes as<br />Her manners<br /><br />She ain't going to State<br />In the fall<br />Like the girls at crackerbarrel and<br />Her apron is filthy<br />And her hair<br />Is in your chili<br /><br />There's a counter<br />With some stools<br />Where the plumber and<br />Electrician perch<br />Cuz the dice are<br />Just below the counter<br /><br />You have to bang the<br />Salt shaker, and in the corner<br />Is a juke box that never heard<br />Of eminem<br /><br />Teachers won't come here<br />Cuz they failed<br />The cook and waitress<br /><br />And there's worse things<br />Than hair in your chili<br /><br />But here, you can laugh out loud<br />And tip because you want to<br />Cuz she's your friend<br />And you take care of your friends<br /><br />Here, dreams are small<br />But dreams just<br />The same </div><div>The til stays open to round -offs<br />And Sadie bakes the pies fresh<br />Every night</div><div> </div><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-66710194370973302222010-10-04T01:30:00.000-07:002010-10-04T01:30:01.092-07:00Whoosh!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiodg99Y0siaPfVDccC2y3JIZ6rY81_UiHJj54QoWYBseYGfk4eQtN76tJzJ1HdgtVs8YvqVEERKbcGpXeIwc6LNpuDXU0Cg9l6A_XLbBR7HFZdECAwxbutoxB0Yo7tiIC8nfUVSELaH1k/s1600/building,collage,dream,floating,flying,paris,sky,sleeping,surreal-2f942bbee418e4643ae719d885ede387_m.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 215px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 184px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522871210772632786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiodg99Y0siaPfVDccC2y3JIZ6rY81_UiHJj54QoWYBseYGfk4eQtN76tJzJ1HdgtVs8YvqVEERKbcGpXeIwc6LNpuDXU0Cg9l6A_XLbBR7HFZdECAwxbutoxB0Yo7tiIC8nfUVSELaH1k/s400/building,collage,dream,floating,flying,paris,sky,sleeping,surreal-2f942bbee418e4643ae719d885ede387_m.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I lie on my bed and look up.<br />Whoosh!<br />I am sucked upward at the speed of silent scream high above the clouds.<br />Then, and with not the pause a roller coaster offers to catch one's breath, I am thrown down hard upon a river of concrete.<br />Thwack! No bounce.<br />I feel myself dragged, helpless as a hummingbird in a hurricane named Earl.</div><br /><div><br />Over fields of stone, through a field of trees, into a deep ocean where I, the dredge, write new history of disregarded lessons.<br />This I imagine, as I lie upon my bed of comfort and thought.<br /><br />For God's sake why?<br />The readers screams<br />For God's sake,<br />The thinker replies.<br /><br />You see, religion teaches us this- commandment and penalty.<br />The commandments hang like another's gum from my shoes, having long ago lost its flavor.<br />That leaves penalty.<br />Five for fighting<br />Ten for fucking<br />A thousand, for just being me.<br /><br />But another has swung from your rope<br />Haven't you heard?<br />Yes, but i don't trust this convenient license to kill.<br /><br />The children cry<br />The old man hungers for the loneliness of his youth<br />And the gun claims God as its trigger</div><br /><div><br />If one has died for the sins of all<br />why do the sins multiply in the closet of our knowing?<br />Those that say they don't, lie<br />And those admitting they do<br />Are condemned by the liar's parchment.<br />A conundrum of perfect reply</div><br /><div><br />If choose i could,<br />One and done would be the smart play<br />But i know better<br />And the gum hangs heavy from my shoes<br />And i lie upon my bed<br />Whoosh!<br />Thwack! </div><br /><div>Absolved</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick</div><br /><div></div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-74285682938028545872010-10-03T13:46:00.000-07:002010-10-03T13:59:13.235-07:00hmmmmmI'm always amazed to find that anyone would read me. I wouldn't. But, and cuz it's free, not cuz I'm homeland security, I have tracker on my blog.<br />I almost never check it, maybe every couple months, just to see if anyone's still there, but today I had a moment and so glanced. Yes, unbelievably, a few still stop by. But what struck me today was Franklin, Ky. Huh?<br />dang, that's awful close to where I live! hmmmm Franklin, nice to meet you! Drop me an email and let me know how ever you came to find me. The other few of you, thank you so much for finding some value in my posts, at least enough so that you stop by from time to time.<br />Franklin, My email is posted on Manx; hope to hear from you.<br />Love you all,<br />RickRickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-49178090372693248142010-09-30T01:16:00.000-07:002010-09-30T01:16:00.543-07:00Up<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEb4wneZk8e6Om4IIKFogXEwo3ZKc0I7nQ7Nk5lnm3aebHPbKdksc9uYsAeV0sCyf14nbX0W5Zdf_FVLiNo63Hr957Rly7xP2TFl2aj_w6WssA2U-9uTaPVo4HGzh6C6MXpAN1xgI17B0/s1600/father_holding_hands.png"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 265px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 237px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515150895603636002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEb4wneZk8e6Om4IIKFogXEwo3ZKc0I7nQ7Nk5lnm3aebHPbKdksc9uYsAeV0sCyf14nbX0W5Zdf_FVLiNo63Hr957Rly7xP2TFl2aj_w6WssA2U-9uTaPVo4HGzh6C6MXpAN1xgI17B0/s400/father_holding_hands.png" /></a><br /><div>When she was smaller<br />Or younger<br />Not really sure which<br /><br />She would run to me<br /><br />Little warning<br />Beyond its own surety<br />She would sail<br />On the springboard of love<br />And trust and God,</div><div>How she'd fly!<br /><br />The only word, "up!"<br />And her legs would tie my hips<br />And her arms would fasten<br />My neck<br />And then the squeeze<br />Of nothing left over<br /><br />Even when she grew bigger<br />Or older<br />Can't say which<br /><br />I would expect the "up!"<br />And it came without fail<br />Til one day<br />I wobbled<br />Ever so slightly<br />And the springboard broke<br />And a hug was waggled<br />In the compromise<br /></div><br /><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-18433216963996779602010-09-27T15:53:00.001-07:002010-09-27T16:17:20.255-07:00Ken<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTb69mg3kbhkUzYGMgykH07Zh9obhqc0b0LnRr6BfM3hq1oUFPsMHmvMkyL6zwp9g3ltR4qYlGp5lAXtHNzM3iHDW3S9sCc-GHhXu48x2tzs12he7uQBEB3Nhhs6VQx1bXl6GwYUo23Mo/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 259px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 194px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521735456719764722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTb69mg3kbhkUzYGMgykH07Zh9obhqc0b0LnRr6BfM3hq1oUFPsMHmvMkyL6zwp9g3ltR4qYlGp5lAXtHNzM3iHDW3S9sCc-GHhXu48x2tzs12he7uQBEB3Nhhs6VQx1bXl6GwYUo23Mo/s400/images.jpg" /></a><br /><div>When first I met him, Ken was sixty-eight I believe. We were driving back roads looking for a house to rent, saw him in his yard and stopped. It was that simple and random.<br />Talk turned to coffee and coffee to stories. He and his wife Norma had moved to Kentucky from Alaska and like many of us, couldn't really remember a good reason for doing so. In his yard he had sled dogs with thick coats that seemed out of place in the hot southern sun, but I loved seeing them anyway.<br />He showed us the buildings he had constructed, their garden and other projects of great ambition, or at least to me. We became friends immediately.<br />Even at sixty-eight, Ken was a strong and solid man standing six foot-five, with a small pony tail that seemed strange to his conservative ways but perfect nonetheless. His mind was whip smart though he pretended otherwise and his humour was slow and smooth. </div><br /><div>He had made his living overseeing the state park system in Oregon. Norma, the same age, was and still is, a great beauty- tall, smart and graceful with gorgeous red hair. They had been high school sweethearts but Norma's parents never approved and did all they could to firebomb the relationship. Only problem was, Neptune in all his glory with Apollo as side-kick would stand no chance in overthrowing them, and married they were.<br />They raised children, lots of them. Twenty-three, I believe, and a few of them were even of their own lovemaking.<br />They told us stories of state parks, young love, adoption, foster children and Alaska. And as I lived briefly in Alaska and held a deep affection for it, I hung on every word. </div><br /><div>There was the time in the deep bush when there were no less than eight of them living in a tent while they constructed a small cabin. The children were mostly ethnic minorities that had come from bad inner city experiences.<br />I've since had the pleasure to meet several of them and they seem much better for the wear.<br /><br />Ken's not much for sitting still. His way is to find a place full of nothing, build it up to something, then move on.<br />Alaska to Kentucky, Kentucky to Alaska, Alaska to Oregon, Oregon to California, then back to Kentucky. All in the seven years since I've known him. They now live one mile from the nothing they built up the first time and sold for loss. And once again, just a piece of grass not fit for mowing has barns and gardens and fences and animals and porches and much beauty.<br />I would go there and Ken would always have either a post hole digger gripped sweaty and dirty or a hammer that would never miss its mark.<br />I would implore him.<br />"Ken, you're not that young anymore, why don't you take it easy, maybe three posts a day, and contract out for that addition"<br />His only response was to look at me like he didn't understand the question<br /><br />Why, just in this past year, they've considered another move, back to Alaska.<br />Where he is now is complete, so to him, there's no reason to stay. They even had the place on the market for another loss but times ain't what they were and a bargain's only a bargain if you have the money to make it so. He called real estate people "up there" and scoured the Internet. His eyes would light as he showed me pictures and dreams of possibilities out of nothing.<br />I don't really know if Norma wanted to move but she liked to see his passion and that made her willing.<br />But seven years is seven years and seventy-five isn't sixty-eight. This I'm learning.<br /><br />The changes were somewhat subtle at first, more bewildering later. </div><br /><div>He came to our house for his birthday. We sang happy birthday and he sang and laughed childlike, just a little too much so, and we all felt awkward as he clapped his hands to the candles going out.<br />He didn't get up as early either. The post hole digger learned rust. His jaw hung just a little too loose and Norma took over his sentences a little too often.<br />I now remember the headaches of two winters ago and wonder. But little matter, Ken finally went to the doctor.<br />Alzheimer.<br />Funny thing is, he knows but he doesn't. The doctors say with good drugs the next two years shouldn't be too bad.<br />He mostly just sits now and the place don't look as nice. Norma's worry of the days ahead is evident in new lines and gray as she takes over the care of the hobby farm. Geese, pot bellied pigs, goats, chickens, dogs, cats and now Ken.<br />There won't be another move, not one that Ken knows, anyway. And it won't be Alaska.<br />The man who all his life only knew how to build and care for, be it children or land is becoming a child who will need great care and can never be rebuilt. And it's painful to watch. Just ask Norma.<br /><br />I don't yet know what I think about all this. I know I wish he would just die tomorrow while digging a hole or chopping a tree, but it's too late for that. I wish he had died in Alaska, but that chance too has passed.<br />I almost wish Norma would die to spare her the horror to come.<br />I think of suicide and how maybe it's not such an easy condemnation; better to fall on the sword than let the enemy take the final cut. I think of my own life and the shortness of days and sunsets unnoticed. I think of much but the answers elude me.<br />Mostly I marvel at a man among men so cruelly taken down by the worst disease he could know.<br />~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-69924348305234641302010-09-25T01:33:00.000-07:002010-09-25T01:33:00.409-07:00Red Light<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQM8p5iGr2M__5q0kc85mq_lnfx_C09VGzWaZmCLgxZFea03ccA87bR2LFmyBR2bcRg0A_9f3V3R_gsSuVpxX9bvmjj8DMpuUBqY9QXEhC8JhJgCk9L192c_ufvh-JMb6fU7tdqi94JvI/s1600/notes-and-queries-red-tra-006.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515155268701417314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQM8p5iGr2M__5q0kc85mq_lnfx_C09VGzWaZmCLgxZFea03ccA87bR2LFmyBR2bcRg0A_9f3V3R_gsSuVpxX9bvmjj8DMpuUBqY9QXEhC8JhJgCk9L192c_ufvh-JMb6fU7tdqi94JvI/s400/notes-and-queries-red-tra-006.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I don't fear heights<br />Only falling from heights<br />The climbers of rock walls<br />All jangle and chink<br />They pause now and again<br />Taking inventory</div><br /><div><br />Their red light<br /><br />The prayer before a hanging<br />Grace before the meal<br />The look before a kiss<br />All red lights</div><br /><div><br />A place to rest<br />And take inventory<br /><br />We try to run them<br />But we shouldn't<br />Watch the guy next to you<br />As he remembers<br />How sweet it smelled<br />Between her thighs last night<br /><br />They don't last long<br />And too many<br />In too short a span<br />Only gather to ambush<br />The one you need<br /><br />Too many or too long<br />And you'll remember<br />Halfway through the feast<br />She got her period</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-69286957608469885552010-09-22T10:23:00.000-07:002010-09-22T10:23:00.262-07:00JeanineWhere's your ticket?<br />What do you mean<br />you haven't got it?<br />the show starts in twenty<br /><br />Jeanine was supposed to get it<br />Yes, quite sure<br />Damn it<br /><br />I like her, I really do<br />But really<br /><br />Oh yes, this isn't the first time<br />I swear she thinks only of herself<br />Why, one time<br />-and you can ask peter<br />But no, that wouldn't be right<br /><br />She loses things too<br />Yes, but only things she's borrowed<br />But really she's sweet<br />Most of the time<br /><br />She should've called you<br />I would've<br />But Jeanine's not me<br /><br />I heard she might get fired<br />I don't know, always late I imagine<br />I think she drinks quite heavily<br />At home<br />Or so someone said<br /><br />Oh look, there she is now<br />And she has your ticket<br />Dear Sweet Jeanine<br /><br />Doesn't she look lovely?<br />But Don't tell her I said so<br />it'll go straight to her head<br />"Hello, Jeanine! over here."<br /><br />And still fifteen minutes<br />Til show time<br /><br />~rickRickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-53374112136773899992010-09-17T01:00:00.000-07:002010-09-17T01:00:03.269-07:00Small<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCgYpuBZ6APr0yPWN4FRZwnxhtO1lITJBKnCxcA_rq84WeVsw8I5fr_A2UyXRC5rx4ArurZJ_Xx2zHBl8zlhRfBgzD_jtjMeI9Sk9YIRcIVm5v4a204aCEgpx33io69aduYsqdxydr6M/s1600/Feeling_Small_by_Menelwen.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 239px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515148837151497042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCgYpuBZ6APr0yPWN4FRZwnxhtO1lITJBKnCxcA_rq84WeVsw8I5fr_A2UyXRC5rx4ArurZJ_Xx2zHBl8zlhRfBgzD_jtjMeI9Sk9YIRcIVm5v4a204aCEgpx33io69aduYsqdxydr6M/s400/Feeling_Small_by_Menelwen.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Ever been to a carnival?<br />Throw the rings, pick the duck<br />Knock down the milk bottles</div><br /><div><br />Behind the barker<br />Floating near jupiter<br />Are the big bears<br />-The one Mary Ellen wants</div><br /><div><br />Below, on a stained board<br />Are the chinese trinkets<br />Mary Ellen would never kiss for</div><br /><div><br />And only the star quarterback<br />Will get the bear, and Mary Ellen<br /><br />I'm in the kitchen now<br />The women are cooking<br />And telling tales<br />Of perverted neighbors<br /><br />I reach up<br />To tug on their skirts<br />Not even knowing<br />What i'd ask for.</div><br /><div>No matter,<br />They don't feel my touch<br />Nor sense my needs<br /><br />I go outside<br />Where a billion stars<br />Commiserate above<br />But they're so many<br />I so one<br />They so far<br />I even farther<br /><br />Right now<br />I feel so small<br />To what plays out around me<br />The thimble<br />In a box full of bright<br />Tangled yarn<br />Not knowing<br />How it got there<br />Or when it lost<br />Its legs</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-4748475342555626452010-09-12T17:30:00.000-07:002010-09-12T18:12:51.307-07:00The Shaman<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrx39Dk7VY94lc7ZfVflEDL8cslxH1ObRJh2T6-XGnVtILWKVk2bNAAaLBEGc60YmQRQxi0y7zofrmiUTbn45wXG3y2nY3E_G5wIaWZWzwnPmIDlJ0aZHTX7YtJ55O-TPead-ebotx9U/s1600/shaman.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516196032969244210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrx39Dk7VY94lc7ZfVflEDL8cslxH1ObRJh2T6-XGnVtILWKVk2bNAAaLBEGc60YmQRQxi0y7zofrmiUTbn45wXG3y2nY3E_G5wIaWZWzwnPmIDlJ0aZHTX7YtJ55O-TPead-ebotx9U/s400/shaman.jpg" /></a><br /><div>He looked so wise, so serene<br />Sitting there naked<br />Cross legged before his fire<br /><br />No, that's a lie<br />He looked pathetic and pompous<br /><br />I thought his balls would be bigger<br /><br />He didn't look up,<br />Just waved his incense<br />As an orchestra </div><div>Of mosquitoes played<br /><br />Can a dream be overthrown<br />I asked, without prompt<br />No<br />He hushed<br /><br />I see<br />And spit into his fire<br /><br />Says who?<br />I hissed in reply<br /><br />The universe<br /></div><div>hmmm, I see, how convenient.<br />I went to my haunches<br />And blew smoke through him slowly<br /><br />Yeah, continued I, well fuck the universe<br />to which he smiled<br />And said nothing<br /><br />Will my dream come true?<br />I riddled on<br /><br />Yes, his eyes said<br /><br />Well, we'll see about that<br />And I rose,<br />Surrounding his wisdom<br />With my human glory<br /><br />Do you not want the dream?<br />He cornered<br /><br />No, I lied<br /><br />Then why did you desire it?<br />He delighted<br /><br />I didn't, I lied<br /><br />I then passed through<br />His smoke of wise lavender<br />And sat cross legged<br />before him<br /><br />What makes you so wise?<br />And I threw my head up at him<br /><br />Knowing, he said softly<br />As his eyes drifted back<br />Into the embers<br /><br />I put a finger to his arrogant face<br /><br />Yeah, said I, well<br />Two and two is four<br />But that doesn't make me<br />A mathematician,<br />Because you see<br />There is a place where my knowing ends<br />But the questions continue<br /><br />That is wisdom, he nodded<br /><br />Well, I continued, perhaps<br />Your knowing, along with your wisdom<br />Ends with my dream<br /><br />He looked up from his dancing flame<br />And found my eyes wanting<br /><br />But the dream was another's ,</div><div>He exposed,<br />Who made it yours<br />only through your knowing<br />of its meaning<br /><br />Then he tilted his head slightly<br />Why do you resist that which you most desire?<br /><br />Again, I spit upon his fire<br />And my words hissed upon him<br />In sparked reply.<br />Because I wont be ruled<br />By the chicanery of<br />Another's indigestion<br /><br />Now <em>you</em> deny the validity of an equation<br />Within your knowing,</div><div>That is foolishness<br />He humoured<br /><br />Yeah, replied I, well last year in a dream I flew around the moon</div><div>on a purple moose<br />Should I now search out<br />A purple moose with wings</div><div>And begin my journey?<br /><br />He snortled to my query</div><br /><div>Not all dreams are alike<br />-some are prophetic<br />Some are symbolic<br />And some are indigestion<br />The art is in the knowing,<br />The wisdom in acceptance<br />Of that knowing<br /><br />I then stood, kicked his fire closed<br />and pissed upon his sad balls<br /><br />Well I sure as fuck ain't ever gonna<br />Get married in Ohio. You can bank on it.<br />to which he replied, we'll see about that<br />And disappeared into the smoke</div><div>As I once again found myself</div><div>Sitting on my toilet</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick </div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823868548293466318.post-59102826857021508682010-09-07T02:09:00.000-07:002010-09-07T02:09:00.502-07:00Chickens<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpiRV8vpyd9Rw6mQ-k5PJYz_VWmFHwu818WY_HggiS9nRyw_zUzSPOQNw1lM2yIbIgyvV4FVkD1Oqe2jP0vMcqXa5gwPIQPncLgy9yRjU8VeLU9lmmRoErErHx0_KOjEc-8aEAJFi7jQ/s1600/mikey.bmp"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 305px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512506054461227154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpiRV8vpyd9Rw6mQ-k5PJYz_VWmFHwu818WY_HggiS9nRyw_zUzSPOQNw1lM2yIbIgyvV4FVkD1Oqe2jP0vMcqXa5gwPIQPncLgy9yRjU8VeLU9lmmRoErErHx0_KOjEc-8aEAJFi7jQ/s400/mikey.bmp" /></a><br /><div>Went to a petting zoo cuz the sign said "fun for all ages"<br />Liars.<br />And they had these chickens that could sing and dance-well, dance anyway.<br />There was one with a tiny white glove on his foot that could do a mean moonwalk.<br />Another wore a top hat and had a tiny cane duct taped to his claw while he did "singin in the rain" though i think it was the tape that gave him his quick feet.<br />The point is, though, (yes, there is a point) is that these chickens were trained with just a little corn!<br />Fuck! Learned behavior.<br />We're talking an animal that's just as smart without his head as with it.<br /><br />I saw on TV this guy who had a headless chicken for a pet, called him (it) mike and fed him by stuffing corn down its (his) throat with a pencil.<br />The damned thing lived years after his (its) head had been lopped off!<br />The thing either didn't mind or just never noticed. Whatever, Dude!<br /><br />I once suffered a nasty wisdom tooth for nearly a year before pain finally knocked the shit outta fear.<br /><br />Another time I had something really bad I had to tell my parents as they were gonna find out anyway, and I moaned like a love sick hound for a month while I drug it out.<br /><br />Went to court once (had to, the warrant said so) and took the latest date i could. As if the judge was gonna grow old and kindly in a month.<br />Shit, how i sweated that one!</div><br /><div><br />The point is, (i said there was one-remember?) is this;<br />Dumber than a chicken<br />Me,<br />Fucking dumber than headless mike</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.com