Small

I feel small
atom small
no, smaller

what's smaller than an quark?
can a quark
slip through quantum?
are black holes
mouse holes?
or grand canyons?

what's beyond the small?

I want to disappear
I need
to disappear

into the dense nothing


what will I find there?
me?
or just the beginning of nothing?

I feel myself growing smaller
can you tell?

here I go

*poof*

Julie

This is a post I published long ago. Julie died last Thursday. Age 51 I hear she weighed 80pounds.
She just ran out of fight, I imagine.
Goodbye Julie










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.

tomatoes are cheaper
tomatoes are cheaper

she chirped
skipping past my house
her laugh prodding others

in class
at ballgames
parties and such
she drew me
load and lock

but unnoticed
went I,
or mostly so,
giggles and elbows
only

there was history
dark
I could tell
and that
I think, the draw

she saw, I think,
my knowing
for I looked past
her beauty
past her shield
past yesterday

I wanted so
to protect
she wanted
destruction only.
victory was hers
in dash

wagons loaded
for the goldfields
she found only
needles and loops.
fool's gold for
cheerleaders
with white tender thighs

cruel lords
mastered her desire;
less than nothing,
for it made
her complete

last I heard
bridges for roofs
thieves
for company
whiskey
for yesterday
hollow eyes
for tomorrow
lust slaked
at last

friends that were
tho I doubt,
say no hope
we tried, what a mess
as they tip
their pink drinks
somehow purifying

I'd like to see her again,
to hear her chirp
and laugh
knowing I wont

I'd like to see her
just one more time
to say it's ok
we all fucked up.

pandering ass

tomatoes are cheaper
tomatoes are cheaper

perhaps, maybe
I just liked her
or maybe envied
and admired
her glorious
destruction
with no holding back

tomatoes are cheaper

~Rick

The Trainwreck

In a piss-hole town birthed by a railroad that later changed its mind, lies a hell hole of a tavern-no, tavern's too genial a word-a bar called The Depot but The Trainwreck suits it better.

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.
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.
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.

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.

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.
If you stand, your elbows barely reach and your chin-anybody's chin- sits about level with the bar and some of the local women bring pillows.

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.
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.
They heat the place with a wood stove and the temperature depends on how many empty cases are available.
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.

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.

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.
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.

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.
It's not Ruby Tuesdays or even the VFW, but it's cheap and the place has character.
Just no Trains or doors.

(written with a good friend who wishes to remain anonymous-and really, who can blame her?)

Annie In Wonderland

".....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....."

Pssst, hey you!
"me?"
-yeah, you. Wanna see somethin'? Follow me.
And lacking her normal regard for consequence, she did, right down the rabbit hole.

Falling
Falling
Falling


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 through a tunnel with gum drop walls and tootsie roll beams...right back to her office.


"Wow! Is that my desk? It seems so small without all those papers on it."
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.

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.

"Hey, Babe, so glad you could make it! It'd really be great if you could sing a few tunes with us."
"Well, maybe just a couple," Annie demurred.

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.

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."

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...
up
up
up

"....and that's why the sensible approach is careful prudence. The Turner proposal will just have to wait. any questions?"


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.

Dead Jimmie

So one day i says to God
God, if i die
-could you give me a couple
Hours warning?
-Kinda got some things i need
To clean up

He didnt answer
Rarely does

But you wonder,
You know?
That weird lump
The dizzy spells

So anyways,
There i was
Minding my own business
While i slept
When up walks jimmie

Now Jimmie's a fella
I used to work with
Nice guy, bout my age
But had the diabetes bad

Last i heard they had lopped
Off a foot and were
Thinkin on lessening him some more

Anyhow, he didn't look good, nope,
None too good

But here he was
Wake walking in my sleep
And damned if he didnt look good!
Walked like a guy with two perfectly good feet

I was cleaning a small window
And who knows why and
I say to him
"Jimmie, geez, you're lookin good"
But he just sadly shook his head no

I could tell he came with a purpose
A message perhaps,
Didn't just happen by,
ya know?

And  he just pointed knowingly
To the ground behind me

Then i woke up

Hmmmm
Would God send dead Jimmie
And is Jimmie even dead?
Couldn't imagine God sending live Jimmie, but Jimmie is a mormon so he mighta been on a field trip
Baptizing hitler and dead jews
Who knows

Couldnt find Jimmie in the obits
But he really wasnt an obits
Kinda guy,
Never even tucked in his shirt
ya know?

Anyway
I feel like shit
But no worse than the shit
I felt like yesterday
And hate to clean house
If Jimmie was just gas

But if soon you find
A wreath upon my blog
You can't say I wasnt warned
~rick

The Way I Know Her

saw her once in 1973,
she was leanin to the lamp post
when billy fremont came
sauntering past with his
cocky stride.
she was snappin her gum
and never lost a beat as
the corner of her mouth
curled geniusely

her foot snaked out
and whamo!
down goes billy in a heap!
but quick as lightnin
ol billy jumps up and bolts
for that dirty bitch
but weren't no need to hurry
cuz she was already there
with her chin up and
her long hair cherokeed

"whatcha gonna do bout it billy fremont?"
she slung his full name like david's stone
and it sunk deep in his forehead
"well, you'll see. You'll see"
she coughed out a laugh
that echoed through generations
and her gum hit him square in the head as he stomped away

seen her once in a field
splittin wood
all dressed up as a man,
her sleeves rolled tight
to her biceps, and
that axe starting at the heel
never paused for breath
as nature itself  held
hush in the trees

she once sold the worst car
in the lot
to the man who owned the bank
and all he could do
was pretend it wasn't

but she has her soft side

I've seen her walk down
a country lane in May soft
as doves skittered her steps
and sparrows nested
in her locks

she's written poem after poem
to dragonflies who taxied
soft breezes
to her curling fingers

I've seen her stroke
the marigolds gently
and tickle the honey bee's whisker
while the sun caressed
her heaving breast

she has her moods
and they are best avoided
but she has her moments
that should never be sold

those that think themselves
favoured in her charm
shall surely find the draft
of her bared teeth
and her mercies are
more random
than a coin toss

if she were any other way
she would be any other lake
than Superior

The Poet Will Die

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.

And they knew the risks.
Many had careers and lives envied of all that knew them, and yet, they trekked., knowing the cost and odds.
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.
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.
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.
It is never enough for them to love, they must rip the heart from chest and explore the why. And then do it again.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Therefore, the poet will die.

in every beast, a hunger grows

to thirst, for tomorrow's fresh dew

and the lover says shall we

in the new fallen rain

and together they walk

but alone

and a flower blooms

wild and true

where politics bled her men dry

in fateful excursion

leaving their passions

in fields of martyrs passed by

the sower seeds

while the painter creates

and the violins

spin blue into gold

but somewhere below

and beyond the turned earth

beyond the white fields of fresh snow
where new borns dredge
the souls of before

they must sing a new song

 of great old

and this story new

it must be told

in a thousand

shades of pain bourne

bled from the prick
she knew in great need
 to balance the weight

of her scorn
and
the poet will kill her

to die his sweet self

in the murder

that no one shall mourn

so here and now

let's drink to he

and her, and all

that ever they see

for tomorrow, the poet

shall surely die

so tonight

let's just let him be

~rick

Gimme Shelter

Billy Hobart steps gingerly to the porch
as the frightened screen door
screams from his feeble grip
shifting the dog into panic


looking to the pasture,
he spots the chestnut mare
looking back, wild-eyed,
her mane a thousand crazy
kite strings

as the barn door slaps BANG!
on its twisting hinges,
his cap takes flight
chasing Miss Lucy's
shit green garbage can
down the drive

far out to sea,
the fishing has been fair, but now
Tom Patterson stares narrow-eyed
through the helpless wipers
as Jack sits the little stove
two-handing his coffee cup,
leg over knee, on the folding chair

the rollers have grown teeth,
swagger, and two fish
in the water dance wildly
on their cable, saying
as if!

list and wallow?
run and swamp?
or dare to luff?

Jack lifts his filthy cap
to rub his brow
and one-eyes Tom
who can only shrug

Sometimes, a moment too long
is a lifetime too short

I feel it now
as this blow barrel-rolls
across the ridge and
hammers the hollow flat

I feel the burp of
the ocean deep
rising and churning

fences fly
and lights flicker

windows bend
and rain becomes a million shards
of black stained glass

somewhere in my memory
there's a time, a place,
a gentle raft on still waters,
a mountain top of soft powder,
a girl lying upon stained linen
smoking my last cigarrette
in the red candle light

I don't wish the storm away,
wouldn't purchase promise
if it sold two for a quarter

but here
in the midst of the rage,
in the belly
of the storm,
just before I make my last chance run,
for just a moment

gimme shelter


~rick

The Search For The Perfect Perfume

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


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?
The smell that delighted rather than repulsed as the day before?
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.
No broccoli today and extra sugar in the Kool Aid. Do you remember?
Recess was five minutes longer.

Daddy's old spice after Tuesday night's shower.
Momma's kitchen on Thanksgiving morning while Macy's convinced you, you were really there.
Grandpa's pipe and the cloud that framed his smile.

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.
The July hay field you peddled past on the way to dreams just over the rise.

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.
All of these, and more. Making perfect sense as one.
That's how the perfume was described.

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.

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.
She cackled from the limb supporting her perch.
"Why, child, the only price is your ability to achieve."
And with that, she tossed it to my reaching hands and flew away.
I sat down against the tree to study it.
Orb shaped it was, neither heavy nor light. It just was, as if beyond the possibility of gravity.
I held it to my nose.
No roasting turkey
No old spice
No Bethany's sweet cum.
Just a ball full of nothing.

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.
I grew restless and walked but couldn't remember where or why. I just wandered the forest releasing magic butterflies into the trees.
As deeper I trod, the forest grew deeper as well and dusk settled on my efforts.
Just as dark was reaching its apex, I stepped into a small clearing of light.
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.
Above him, hung a tiny moon watching over his shoulder, with sleepy eyes.
Without so much as a glance, he spoke.
"What is it you seek, so deep in the forest?"
I held out the magical orb.

"I seek what lies within."
"Hmmmm, yes, a noble desire no doubt."
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?"
The answer required no thought.
"Just know it."
His moon had grown dimmer so he reached and stroked it gently and fresh light covered our conversation.
The sage then set the glass back on the table and took the orb from my hands. He turned it and studied it.
"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.
"Well, how do you do that?"
With no change of expression he replied, "You must love it before you have it."
I thought for a moment but only grew more confused. "How can you love something you've never known?"
"Ah," he raised a long gnarled finger. "That is what you must learn."
I paused in frustration.
"Um, ok -how do i learn it?"
Finally, he smiled slightly and looked up.
"Why, my boy, you already have."
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?"
It didn't even strike me as odd he should know.
"I did not know the scent til then."
He threw his hands open and his eyes twinkled in the lenses. "Precisely!"
Then he continued. "And your fathers after shave, how many times did you smell it before you found it lovely?"
I shrugged and tilted my head.
"Just once, I guess."
He leaned far forward and thrust a crooked finger at me.
"Right again! Inside out."
I squatted down before him and rolled the orb in my hands.
"You speak in the way of wisdom," said I, "but still my dilemma remains."
He lifted the glass once more, eyed it carefully, then set it down and pushed it towards me.
I looked at his deep eyes, ancient lines, and then he whispered, "You need to go."
I looked around at the walls of thick black and wondered, go where?
He tapped the rim of the glass.
"Here."

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.
I lifted the glass and drank it dry.
As I felt nothing new or queer, I raised my palms wide in silent ask.
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.
All that existed was black nothing and the trail of light, which I chose to explore.
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.
I walked to her, to ask her why she was alone.
Her eyes were closed and when I reached down to touch her, she turned to tiny white wings and fluttered away.
I smelled the damp sand, tasted it, hoping for a trace,
But there was none.

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.
As I followed it, I watched behind me as the darkness followed my steps.
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.
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.
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.
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.
This journey continued and repeated until the trails ran out and all my memories of lovely fragrances had been tarnished.
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.
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.
She smiled and spoke.
"Did you achieve?"
I held the orb up.
She pretended a frown and said, "What seems to be the trouble?"
I turned my eyes to it and replied, "It seems whenever I peel a layer away, a new one grows within."
"That's true," She offered. "Each layer is a moment and for each moment past, a new moment is born."
"So," I puzzled, looking up to her, "The riddle has no solution."
She said nothing but bent down low and softly blew upon the orb.
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.
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.
I smiled as never before and looked up to the she-raven.
"Disappointed?" She asked
"No," I answered. "Pleased beyond all hope. Tell me, what do you call it?"
"I call it "Now"
And with that she changed again and joined the other moments in the trees.

My Colours

I wish I could swim
or even float as flotsam
in the colours of my life

not as grandeur ocean
or rolling, churning river
but as hurricane,
me, the all seeing eye

greens and burgundies
aqua and sunset
as up I carry
in a spiral trail of magic

i would float on my back
and perhaps, understand
the blend and finish
of my new colour
collage

from there, up high
I could spin miracles
to the perfect twirl
and paint you happy

but i flounder and flail
in a hopeless kick
and broken stroke
while the mess rains heavy
as bent rusty nails

how they tried,
those that loved me
to soothe and gentle
in demonstrated ease

just a little kick, they smile
-easy strokes,
be one with the moment
you swim in

and I try
God help me, I do

but I sink as before
as the colours explode into shrapnel
obliterating the cascade
I dreamed of
when my youth
knew imagined success

through perfect

naivety

~rick

Silent Observer

was the time
when rivers knew my stones
from troubled fingers,
the wiggle of my bait
from greedy want, and
the trespass
of my feet, all five-buckle boots
trample and clang

and too, the woods of September
knew my stick
in crooked drag
and daring poke

I swung at the clouds
challenged the storms
sang to the moon, and
danced to ideas
stolen from generations
of long forgotten fools

but not now
-not today

today I ghost,
a watcher, mere
silent observer

this I do, with tremble and quake
seeking a new brand of comfort

the stones I threw
and side-winder skipped
chased herons from the quiet, and
birds became mimes
to my terminator steps

and choir to the moon
draws only the applause of sad dust
while the clouds I swing at
water another man's tulips

but now, maybe,
if tenderly I step, and
carefully I observe while
reaching into my ribs
to stretch my soul wide
to the quiet placement
of motion without man,
then perhaps,
a new comfort will find room,
more five and dime
than taco laced strip malls

so hush, says the gentle river
gliding the day
shhhh,
says the quiet woods
laying me upon it's
canvas of paupers carpet

let us paint you
in the light of concede
to a way you need know
to truly know us

let us drift you, say they, to
a new language
that rush can never learn
from passing clouds

we will be your gait
as we blend your thoughts
into dreams you can't see
and songs you can't hear
in the silence of your noise

I know,
this silent passage
will not grant me
my hearts desire
nor make my moon fuller

it will not be alchemist
to my stew of mistakes
nor keep me
from tomorrow's fresh madness

I simply choose to accept
the peace it offers today
if only I shadow it
a silent observer

so
I surrender the sword
without ceremony
or honour
to be silent observer,
the careful watcher, one
naked in spirit, needing
the ancient wisdom
quiet might bring

~rick

Sweeping

Whsht whsht whsht

The sun kaleidoscopes the maple

into orgasmic explosion
sending life upon death

through the vacant street

in 1968, his son met jimi hendrix
in Da Nang, but
only the music returned

giving voice
to a folded flag

wushhh wuushh wushhh

lost a sister in '73 in the
damnedest wreck clay county
never did see, and

A maple leaf falls

in twist and float
but settles short of

the potter's field
where it's too sad
for red to die

Wushhh wushhh wushhh
sweeps the broom

as Tom's mail truck

rounds the corner

unnoticed

by the stillest of motion

whsht whsht whsht

Mary passed in '87 from the cancer

-brother earl, two years later

when his heart paused

a moment too long

over the snow shovel

cars pass, some wave

some stare

a few understand

and most ignore

in kindness

but it matters not to him

he who

at first light sidles down

the porch steps

clutching his purpose,

the only one he can keep alive

and the leaves fall

and the wind laughs

and the town cries

for greater recognition, but

time means nothing here

having been swallowed whole

by the seasons of his passing

and the cold hand of loneliness

so all day long he sweeps

that same God damned spot

of clean dirt

like an upside down grave

he can't gain entrance to

and the children pass

to school

and back

quiet feared and wild-eyed

while Marge Thompson

sips her coffee while

leaning to her kitchen window

remembering

to when the maple was a sapling

and hope sang harmony

over green grass seeding love

whsht whsht whsht

~rick

Snow

Oh sky of grey broken tender
Do you feel my beg?
Feast upon my longing?

Old friend, season of my song
Have we not earned each other?

Roofs are for raindrops and
Dream weaver sleep while
Fires tend the fearful's
Broken heart

But you and I, old friend
Kindle a different passage
Where loneliness makes trump
And comfort settles within

So here i am
And there you are
One losing purpose
Without the other

So hush the pines
Who baby bird-like
cry for their supper

Drift the frozen lake
That cracks in flex
Prepared for cover

The owls wait for
Your moonlight glow
And still, telling shadows

We all wait, old friend
As you ponder your mood

I am here, in the field of wait
Alone and jacketed
Longing for the cleanse
Only you, old friend,
Can offer

Hear my longing
As i walk the alone trail
I turn my eyes to you
Throw my arms wide
To your roll and dark billow
And bend the knee
In pleading obeisance

Snow, old friend
Snow

~rick

Making Do

The man at the corner
sells stolen roses
a dog may have pissed on

I bought three for you

remember the Chinese place,
where the cook smoked
to keep the flies miserable?
you kissed me first there

I sang you a song
from the balcony
of super eight
and wrote you a sonnet
when the ball game was cancelled

your mother blushes
when I kiss her hand
with twinkle and smile
while your father beams
to my adventures and travels
from his lazy recliner,
seeming quite weary of his fat ass

all in all, I've loved you well
wouldn't you say?

but if i could
love another
whose breasts stood taller and mightier
whose lips fountained red in full bloom
whose hair sailed the milky way
in fragrant mist

and if I could
win the Pulitzer
sit upon senator's thrones
win the royal cup or
save my soul
from the heart of hell
by simply throwing your mother in
my place

the man on the corner
would be one dollar poorer
and the Chinese fly factory
a table richer
while your father's fat ass
mourned, for his supper

~rick

Civil Wars

Up high on the ridge, i watched
As two hawks battled
For supremacy

While
Just down the line,
The crows gathered to witness
Wearing the petticoats
Of first Manassas

Down here, in the cheap seats,
Twenty hummingbirds
warred over nectar for fifty
While the ants thieved
And the cat watched

A car grinds down
The drive way, flags waving.
It's Mr. brown bearing gifts as he tells me the evils

Of casting my vote for Mrs. Green

This all i ponder
From a seat of ease
As I have no one
To overthrow

I look to the horses as
Surely a worthy foe
But hay and flies
Seem a poor booty

I look into the window
To more cats
Occupied in a fight
Not worthy of my join

My wife comes out
But that battle
Was Korea'd long ago

And we honour the DMZ

The dog barks
At a plastic bag
Ghosted in the autumn breeze

"shut up stupid!"

The dog retreats
Victory is mine

~rick

Cafe

I don't care for restaurants
They're all shoney
And crackerbarrel

Buffets and chemical cones

The waitresses have clean
Green skirts, matching aprons
And name tags

Tightwad teachers meet here
To tip poorly
And compliment each other

For doing their job

All the pie crusts are stamped
Sysco, and a regional dick
Strikes fear, twice a month

Some restaurants are lovely
And the pies from Deflor's bakery.
Teachers don't go here
But neither do i
As i always feel like I entered
A church
with too much God
And not enough sin

But a cafe, yes,
Where the cook
Bellers and belly laughs
At the
Clumsy girl
Who couldn't get into Shoney's
Cuz of that damn tattoo

She's wearin jeans
As full of holes as
Her manners

She ain't going to State
In the fall
Like the girls at crackerbarrel and
Her apron is filthy
And her hair
Is in your chili

There's a counter
With some stools
Where the plumber and
Electrician perch
Cuz the dice are
Just below the counter

You have to bang the
Salt shaker, and in the corner
Is a juke box that never heard
Of eminem

Teachers won't come here
Cuz they failed
The cook and waitress

And there's worse things
Than hair in your chili

But here, you can laugh out loud
And tip because you want to
Cuz she's your friend
And you take care of your friends

Here, dreams are small
But dreams just
The same

The til stays open to round -offs
And Sadie bakes the pies fresh
Every night

~rick

Whoosh!

I lie on my bed and look up.
Whoosh!
I am sucked upward at the speed of silent scream high above the clouds.
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.
Thwack! No bounce.
I feel myself dragged, helpless as a hummingbird in a hurricane named Earl.

Over fields of stone, through a field of trees, into a deep ocean where I, the dredge, write new history of disregarded lessons.
This I imagine, as I lie upon my bed of comfort and thought.

For God's sake why?
The readers screams
For God's sake,
The thinker replies.

You see, religion teaches us this- commandment and penalty.
The commandments hang like another's gum from my shoes, having long ago lost its flavor.
That leaves penalty.
Five for fighting
Ten for fucking
A thousand, for just being me.

But another has swung from your rope
Haven't you heard?
Yes, but i don't trust this convenient license to kill.

The children cry
The old man hungers for the loneliness of his youth
And the gun claims God as its trigger

If one has died for the sins of all
why do the sins multiply in the closet of our knowing?
Those that say they don't, lie
And those admitting they do
Are condemned by the liar's parchment.
A conundrum of perfect reply

If choose i could,
One and done would be the smart play
But i know better
And the gum hangs heavy from my shoes
And i lie upon my bed
Whoosh!
Thwack!

Absolved

~rick

hmmmmm

I'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.
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?
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.
Franklin, My email is posted on Manx; hope to hear from you.
Love you all,
Rick

Up

When she was smaller
Or younger
Not really sure which

She would run to me

Little warning
Beyond its own surety
She would sail
On the springboard of love
And trust and God,

How she'd fly!

The only word, "up!"
And her legs would tie my hips
And her arms would fasten
My neck
And then the squeeze
Of nothing left over

Even when she grew bigger
Or older
Can't say which

I would expect the "up!"
And it came without fail
Til one day
I wobbled
Ever so slightly
And the springboard broke
And a hug was waggled
In the compromise

~rick

Ken

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.
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.
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.
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.

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.
They raised children, lots of them. Twenty-three, I believe, and a few of them were even of their own lovemaking.
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.

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.
I've since had the pleasure to meet several of them and they seem much better for the wear.

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.
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.
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.
I would implore him.
"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"
His only response was to look at me like he didn't understand the question

Why, just in this past year, they've considered another move, back to Alaska.
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.
I don't really know if Norma wanted to move but she liked to see his passion and that made her willing.
But seven years is seven years and seventy-five isn't sixty-eight. This I'm learning.

The changes were somewhat subtle at first, more bewildering later.

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.
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.
I now remember the headaches of two winters ago and wonder. But little matter, Ken finally went to the doctor.
Alzheimer.
Funny thing is, he knows but he doesn't. The doctors say with good drugs the next two years shouldn't be too bad.
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.
There won't be another move, not one that Ken knows, anyway. And it won't be Alaska.
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.

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.
I almost wish Norma would die to spare her the horror to come.
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.
Mostly I marvel at a man among men so cruelly taken down by the worst disease he could know.
~rick