Dont' Ask Me if You Don't Want to Know!

Sometimes
I get myself in trouble
Saying
what might be considered
the wrong thing…
not because I want to be an irritation
but because someone asked a question
and I gave them an answer
they didn’t want to hear…

a woman
in her early twenties…
as big as my mother’s old ‘52 Pontiac…
dressed from head to toe
in basic black…
looking like Johnny Cash’s
gothic offspring…
sits on a bench
awaiting a bus
to nowhere…

I am passing…
on my way to the bookstore…
Charles Bukowski
and iced coffee
are on my mind…
I glance
unemotionally
at the vision on the bench…
it is obvious
she hasn’t missed a meal
since birth…
pizza, French fries,
and hamburgers
lounge beneath her clothing…
she sports a tattoo on her wrist
of a bleeding rose and barbwire…
her hip hugging pants are tight
and her doughy white belly
protrudes over the top…
like the bulges
in a bag of cooked oatmeal…

what breasts
this oddity might have
are stuffed into a bra two sizes two small…
the shoes
look like those worn by Karloff
as the Frankenstein Monster…
the blue and orange hair
hangs at a jagged angle
across her right eye
touching
the spherical silver piercing
in her top lip…
lips smeared thickly
in a color
like that of a ‘bruise’…
and her black eye makeup
was applied with a trowel…

I remember my youth
and the confrontations I had
with my mother over my appearance…
I’m sympathetic
to young people
trying to make a statement
about who they are…
this girl has pushed this concept
right over the edge…
to the point
of being laughable…

I remain staring
at her visage…
without emotion
or any open show
of distaste…

she has had people
stare at her before…
it would be hard to believe
that she hadn’t…
yet even though
she applies this costume
to attract attention…
in typical fashion…
she plays the offended party
if you’re caught looking
in her direction…
which is, of course,
what happens…

I’m calmly staring
at this fright show
when she looks up…
we make eye contact…
big mistake…

quickly
she snaps,
‘what the-hell are YOU lookin’ at?!’…

I think about this
for a second
and reply matter-of-factly,
‘that’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,
but without much success.’…

I immediately received
the ‘digital expression’
of her disdain…
middle finger erect…
accompanied by
the customary
smart-ass smirk…

yep,
I get myself in trouble…
someone asks a question…
I give them an answer
and I get the finger…

life is good…

R. C. Arquette
4/10/07

Clockwork Cacophony

Its cockamamie crazy 
Its here, its there, and in-between
It’s damn lazy, downright sleazy,
     In the world of the living and the dead
It’s utterly ridiculous
It’s ludicrous and spurious
It’s the stuff you see upon the big screen
     In a world designed to pressurize you head
Its undefined dementia
It’s yesterday, today, and tomorrow
Its sometimes lucid, more often twisted,
     In a flashing neon scream fun house ride
Its paralyzing paranoia
Its time, its space, its fifth dimension
It’s unavoidably contagious and infectious
     In a prismatic palace with no place to hide
Its inevitable insanity
It’s in your mirror, your clock, your pants
Its come round to pick you up with a grin
     In a dancing Technicolor checkered cab
It’s weirdly wacky
Its chunky, its funky, its so libertine
Its all those things you were warned against
     In a land where normal is a scary cartoon tune
Its cockamamie crazy 
Its still here, and there, and in-between
It’s always lazy, snickering, and sleazy,
     In this world of the living and the dead

Its what you make it…

                                                                R. C. Arquette
                                                                12/1/02

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Head Games

The head in the refrigerator surprised me
As the door closed it called my name
I'd noticed the milk was out of place,
The liverwurst gone without a trace,
But I thought I was the one to blame...

I managed to grumble back at the head
While stared at it's pale green eyes
For a bodiless head it seemed okay,
I couldn't detect any type of decay,
Nor did I see any worms or flys...

By the light of the bare bulb inside
It first smiled, then spoke again,
"Its quite chilly in hear I'm afraid,
almost as cold as an open grave...
And most of the time dark as sin!"

"Yes, it keeps my groceries fresh,
so what-the-hell else is new?"
The head's teeth were chattering,
Which wasn't in the least flattering...
"Then what d'ya want me to do?"

The chilled head shook the Jello
And looked puzzled by the bread,
"Well, boots and socks will never do,
And jackets and gloves are useless too."
All I wanted was to go to bed...

I got a hot water bottle and wool blanket,
Wrapped him up and tucked him away;
Sticking him between the beans and jam,
Beside the KFC and the sugar cured ham...
I slammed the door and staggered away

I at last fell into bed in my quiet room,
Pulling the covers up under my chin...
And while drifting into dreamy visions...
A muffled voice came from the kitchen,
Saying warmly, "Hey, thanks again."

Bukowski's Ghost: Hank Comes 'Round Again

Hank appears
as wrinkled concrete
all powder gray with age…
a cigarette limp between lips…
beneath a gin blossom nose…
a trophy bestowed
for excellence in excess…

He stands
wrapped in yellowed linen…
a suit seldom worn
but for special occasions…
the worn, brown felt fedora
pulled down
across a craggy brow…

He stares
at the rolled pages…
the ash from his cigarette
finding a home in the race form…
there between the 4th and 5th race…
there to mark Daddy’s Big Mistake…
a long shot worth a glance
and maybe another $2 bet…

He coughs
a whisky and smokers hack
that rattles in his chest
and rattles in my ears…
looking up from his racing form
he finally spies me lying here…
squinting through a trail
of blue smoke rising
from the glowing end
of a generic cigarette…

He growls,
‘hey,’ so matter-of-factly
as if his presence should be
nothing out of the ordinary…
‘did you get the new book?’
he continues,
his brow twisting
into a question mark…
‘yes,’ I answer, ‘got it today’…

I glanced
to the bedside,
the book lay there
all pristine and new…
with that virgin book smell…
a combination
of aromatic inks
and acid free paper…

He continued
‘what d’you think?’…
‘I think it’s another winner,’
I respond, smiling…
‘but Hank, do you really care
what I think about it?’…
‘nope,’ he states flatly,
‘I wrote for myself,
so if you like it fine, if not,
who cares?’…

I awake
as the mantel clock
chimes out midnight…
I find myself lying in bed..
I gaze through blurry eyes
at the volume lying on my chest…
my copy of Bukowski’s
‘The Flash
of Lightning Behind the Mountain’
I look to the bedside table
where the book had been
and it’s empty…
in its place
the alarm clock sits
with its red numeral as a reminder
that yet another day has past…

I think
I must have dozed off…
right in the middle
of Hank’s visit to the doctor…
I find my bookmark
slip it between crisp pages…
yawning, as I dismiss another day…
I place the book on the table
and reach to turn off the lamp…
the apparition catches my eye…

Hank floats
just off the foot of my bed…
looking a bit distant
or maybe reluctant…
I say to him, ‘oh, you care’
he snaps back, ‘what?”

I said ‘you care…
about what people think
about you’re writing…
oh, crusty old Hank would like
to make us think he doesn’t…
but you were the man, the author
consumed by his writing…
you were a writer and a poet,
with an ego and voice…
you have no choice…
of course you care!’

He smiles
one of those bent Hank smiles…
those all-knowing sort of smiles…
he growls again, ‘it feels good
to be right, doesn’t it?…
enjoy it, it doesn’t happen often’

He disappears
like smoke on a breeze…
I turn the knob on the lamp
plunging the room into darkness…
my head sinks into the pillow
as I think to myself,
‘only in our dreams Hank,
only in our dreams’…

I hear his laughter fading
as I cross the threshold
into welcome sleep…

g’night Hank…

R. C. Arquette 2/11/05

Zombies on the Catwalik

Oh darling!…
Gaze upon the emaciated models
All parading shoulders slung back
Bodies pumping up and down
with each exaggerated step…
all appearing thin as cracks…
It’s fashion…
Trendy pompous fashion

How dramatic!…
Their tiny breasts are bobbing
Stiff scrawny arms held ridgid
Straight as arrows
From armpit to hip…
Appearing bitchy and fidgid…
It’s fashion…
High dollar ugly fashion

So divine!…
A mannequin of plastic emotion
Dull eyes and razor line smirk
Draped in gaudy gauze
In colors noxious and ugly…
Still breathing by some quirk…
It’s fashion…
Grotesqueries in fashion

My gawd!…
These zombies on the catwalk
High priced skeletons on parade
A mockery of female form
Grow more deathly everyday
The elite social rags of the grave
It’s fashion…
The sickness that is fashion

10/11/00 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brave Passage Through a Literary Landscape

The contemporary Columbus
explores the geography of words
sailing in black Nunn Bush shoes

down narrow gray carpeted valleys
of climate controlled provinces

(between Whitman, Poe, and Plath)

navigating an ever changing
literary landscape of marvels;
these Matterhorns and Everests rising

on either side stretching high
off into the hazy distant horizon

(past King, Koontz, and Barker)

piles of patterned pulp with printed pages
rising in a maintained geometric topography
beckoning like the haunting sirens

calling seductively to this sailor sailing
their vibrant gaudy colors like fall leaves

(here Beatles, Steamships, and Cats)

like tropical flowers all attractive to the eye
emblazoned with lines, shapes, and colors
defining boldly what they promise inside

each niche, cave , and cranny filled
with a myriad of thought provoking images

(pages of Giger, Klimt, and Van Gogh)

and themes for hungry probing minds
to either drift above or search below
praying for a deeply stimulating harbor

the fresh smell of paper and printers ink
floats in heady fragrance on a passing breeze

(where Freud, Camus, and Capote await)


I anchor beneath a fluttering graphic banner
proclaiming poetry in royal blue and gold
and scan the familiar faces in the crowd

noting the alphabetical arrangements
enforced by certain popular decree

(finding cummings, Bronte, and Dickinson)

the gathered poets smile and vigorously wave
for a discoverer has come to set them free
to invade this country of cliffs and ledges

to carry them forth into larger worlds
to converse with this inquisitive soul

(leading Kerouac, Sandburg, and Williams)

once the invited have been brought aboard
offered green tea, cannabis, or chocolate sweet
sail is set and the voyage is resumed

and the wind is strong and at our backs
as we sail into the light of the outside world

(smiling Ginsburg, Di Palma, and Parker)

Columbus satisfied with his new discoveries
retires to indulge the wisdom of new friends
vowing that in not too distant a time

again he’ll ply the aisles in endless quest of truth
in brave passage through a literary landscape

R. C. Arquette
1/19/03

RCat: Award Recipient

I must say, the ol' RCat hasn't recieved too many awards in his lifetime. I guess I haven't lived one of those lives that allow you to garner such trophies or accolades. I have thought about this fact before, but never found it to be too upseting, just a bit odd. Yet when I do get a pat on the head or ablue ribbon for my lapel, it is a delight and worthy of crowing about.

I discovered today that I had been presented with a wonderful award for using words; what could be better? My fellow poet and scribe, Shirley Allard, editor of WordCatylist.com, had included me as a recipient. I am grinning from ear to ear. The image of the grand trophy can be seen above. I just had to share it with my adoring fans (chuckle).

I have to say; thank you Shirley I am honored to be among such poetic company!

Shirley tells me that in accepting the award, the recipient is required to list three things that they believe make writing good and powerful before passing the award along to five other people. Over the years I have thought and read and talked about poetry. I have three axioms about poetry that work just as well for verse.

When I was 22, I took my first writing course. It turned out to be a very interesting poetry class, taught by a wonderful woman, at a small Junior College. I had been writing what I felt was poetry since age fifteen and I knew it was time to polish up my meager offerings. We studied many of the classic forms of poetry and it taught me a great deal; including the fact that what I was writing was not always poetry…imagine my surprise!

1. When poets first put word to paper it is more often than not an outpouring of personal emotion. Even though emotion is almost a prerequisite for poetry, if the writer becomes so immersed in their on emotive pathos or angst, they will lose the attention of the reader. Since poets strive to be read and are nurtured by the reader, it is imperative that the poet write as much of their inner directed emotion out of their work as quickly and quietly as possible; somewhat like an exorcism for poetic demons. These personal works, of course, can be saved in a file for future reference or reflection, but the thought of presenting them to an unsuspecting readership should be set aside. Instead, redirect emotion into a more universal language that lets your reader share in your experience rather than leaving them on the outside struggling to comprehend what feels like abstract emotional imagery. In other words, write from the heart, but in such a way that you let the reader become a part of what you have written.

2. Write about everything. Do not confine yourself to certain subjects when you write, let your mind draw on any and all situations. Sometimes riding in the car, walking down a street, getting on an elevator, waiting in an office, or any of a thousand other situations can trigger some very creative ideas. You may have to force yourself to do this the first few times and you may not think what you have written is of any merit, but keep it up. Repeat the process and discipline yourself to write about everything your senses can reach. It can reward you with some of the finest images you will ever apply to the page.

3. To be a poet is to be consumed. We all know that very few of our number are ever able to support themselves on strictly a poets wage. If you are going to remain consumed you have to keep that fire in your mind and in your gut burning (I don't mean migraines and heartburn either). In order to keep it alive and fresh you have to read about it, you have to breath it in, and most of all you have to write, write, write.

These ideas can make a world of difference in how you write your poetry and in how you view the art of writing. They have meant the world to me over the years I hope they can be of some worth to you as well. Then, if you find they work within your sphere of writing, maybe you will pass them on to the new poets you come across asking for insight and advice.

I now pass the torch to these five poetic gents:

1. Michael Dunn
2. Dan Kasten
3. Don Campbell
4. JD Clay
5. Terry Olynik

I hope you fellows enjoy the honor as much as I do. - RCat