Clockwork Lightning

October Thoughts

2010-10-24T16:54:00.003-04:00

It is October
and the winds
now blow cool...
in the shadows the
coolness hugs you...
the blood finds it
harder to warm
your veins...
retreating to your core...
saving its heat
for survival...
the first shiver
of approaching Winter
works its way down
my arms...
down my spine...

step into the light...
stand beneath the sun...
feeling the waves
of old Sol
pour down over you...
flowing like warm honey...
covering you
in a blanket of calm...
leaving you sleepy
and smiling...

each year I wait
for the last days
of sweltering Summer
to pass into Fall...
the first cool days
to reinvigorate
my spirits...
to prepare me
for holidays
and families...

today is that day...
the 59th time
I've felt the
sun on my face...
letting the cold
sinking from the north
slip like tentacles
around the contours
of my form...

the air is crisp...
a promise of renewal
caressing me...
as it did at
8 years,
12 years,
and 21...
over and over...
the unseen clock...
ticking away the minutes...
natures calendar
with its pages flipping
through months and years...

yet standing
in this field
once again...
I forget the world...
I forget the people...
I forget myself
and float above it all...
secure in this moment...
thinking how could
the moment be
any better...
how could this life,
in this place,
be anymore true...

R. C. Arquette
10/18/2009

Halloween Comes Creeping

2009-10-13T21:22:00.004-04:00


The cold air chills the senses
As October comes around again…
Under a cloud streaked Harvest Moon…
                     The first frost descending
                Clings to fat orange pumpkins
          Some with Jack-O-Lantern smiles
Indian Corn stalks stacked…
Ghosts and witches in the windows…
Skeletons twisting in the trees…
           The dead arise fetid and obscene
                      The images of Halloween…

At sunset the earthy aroma hangs
Fall leaves are being burned…
After all their colors turned…
                              The tendrils of smoke
                   Swirl among the headstones
                    Blue-gray serpents tongues
Sensually stroking the cold…
Ancient weathered granite…
Markers of the dead…
            The bouquet of decay gone green
                    The smells of Halloween…

The wind moans a lost lament
As distant wolves howl a tune…
Discordant song sung to the moon…
                              The voices whispering
                    Eerie messages on the wind
                         Through skeletal fingers
Come haunting to our ears…
Enhancing our nervous fears…
As the bats awake from slumber…
            Dark wings flap overhead unseen
                    The sounds of Halloween…

Hair on necks stand stiffly
As we imagine sticky spider-webs…
Or monstrous claws upon our heads…
                               The ghosts and ghouls
                       Grabbing at our soft flesh
                         Jealous of our life’s blood
Their decayed flesh hangs…
Bare skulls and dripping fangs…
As we run away from the nightmare…
             A night of hysteria and screams
                      The feel of Halloween…

The Indian Pudding was tasty
And the pumpkin pie was a delight…
Now costumes appear in the night…
                               To trick-or-treat for
                       Sweet candies and cookies
                   Goodies for the fearless few
Who come a haunting…
By porch light, so undaunting…
Dreams of chocolate on each tongue…
          The candy corn and caramel crème
                       The taste of Halloween…

I celebrate the Pumpkin King
With a childish joy unbound…
At last Halloween has come around…
                         As it always comes again
                          Honoring the cycle of life
                    With it’s dying and it’s dead
We can confront our fears…
We all carry through the years…
With tools used from cradle to grave…
       I believe you may know what I mean
                   The five senses of Halloween

                                                 R. C. Arquette
                                                 10/8/00

Do Madmen Dream of Sanity?

2009-09-13T18:35:00.005-04:00

I sit
trance-like…
watching
the blips
bounce
rhythmically
down the hills
and valleys
of sine waves
in neon green…

electro-medical
mumbo-jumbo…

gaudy gauges
illustrating
binary patterns
of color,
brilliance,
and intensity…

it seems
to be trying
to make sense
of the cinematic images…
Technicolor landscapes…
realistic
surround sounds
that permanently
fill the soft space
within my
turtle skull…

so ‘hmmmmmm’
says I to me
and doing so
I birth
this question…

when fate
conspires to rob
a fragile mind
of tranquility…
scrambling reason…
shorting
synaptic switches
breaking
rapid-fire relays…
spinning logic
into darkness…
leaving a mind
that exists
in a realm
of cold sweat
hot flashes…

of phobic fear…

what happens
when at last
the fatigue comes
or the medication
settles the demons..
and sleep comes…

what happens
when
the sleeper slips
into a shroud
of unconsciousness…

is there terror…
are there
eels and worms
writhing in
dark corners…
do the nightmares
truly invade
as the volumes
of ‘mind shrink’
so decree
in common
choral voice…

is it naught
but chaos
blooming…
filling that
unguarded space
with manic dread…

or in fact…
do madmen
dream of sanity?

R. C. Arquette
8/2/07

A Suitcase with Attitude

2009-07-04T20:20:00.002-04:00


Mike and Jimmy Driscoll
were two of seven kids
supported by a single mom…
never much money to go around
they had to entertain themselves…
they spent most of their free time
exploring the woods
behind their little wood frame house…

on one of those explorations
Jimmy found a wounded Bobcat…
ordinarily fierce animals of muscle,
claws, and sharp pointy teeth…
it was nearly dead from being in a fight…
if it hadn’t been so beaten up
he wouldn’t have been able to
move it to their back porch
to doctor it…

he and Mike cleaned it up…
put some mercurochrome
or iodine on it’s wounds…
and gave it fresh water…
it rested and soon
began to eat…

they had it in a metal cage
too small for it to move around…
they showed it off to everyone…
hissing, spiting, and pawing the bars
with each viewing
from the neighborhood kids…
the animal grew stronger
and meaner…

their mother wanted it gone…
she figured someone would get hurt…
rabies from bites or scratches
was her major complaint…
so the day came it had to go…
but how?

the answer came
in the form of an old suitcase…
one of those cane weaved types
with a tweed design in beige
trimmed in dark brown…
the kind they used in the forties…
just big enough
to hold a troublesome Bobcat…
it didn’t have a handle
so they tied it up with
a piece of old rope…
punched a few holes
in the ends for air
and wrestled the cat inside…

instead of turning it loose
in the woods where they found it…
they trekked a drainage ditch
to a paved road a couple miles
from their house…
their reasoning was
they didn’t want the ‘shredder’
showing up again on the back steps…
the plan
was to dump it in the bushes
on the other side of the road
and then hike home…

they realized they had a problem…
they didn’t have the cage
to contain the cat anymore…
if they opened the case
they weren’t sure what would happen…
so Mike sat on the suitcase
as he and Jimmy went over the options…

occasionally a car would pass…

Jimmy, thinking aloud, said,
‘too bad we don’t have someone
to open it for us’…

‘well I’m not gonna’ do it!’
Mike replied, adding,
‘I gotta’ pee,’ …
he got off the suitcase
and went into the palmettos
to get rid of some Kool-Aid…

in the distance…
in the shimmer of the waves
coming off the hot asphalt…
a car was approaching…

Jimmy saw the car…
thought it the right time
to take a wiz himself…
so down in the bushes
he found his own tree to mark…

both boys had their backs to the road
deep in the cover of the undergrowth
they heard a car slowing…

Mike turned, in mid pee,
to see a beat up old Continental
with four middle aged black men
pull to a stop…
they eyed the suitcase…
then all four of them checked
up and down the road…
looking sneaky,
like spies on a mission…
checking for the bags owner
or just to make sure
no one was around…

before Mike could zip up…
the back door opened
and one of the men grabbed
the rope on the suitcase…
hauling it into the backseat
of the big, smoking, old car…

Mike yelled, ‘hey!’
wanting to warn them,
but if they heard him,
they didn’t care…
the car quickly sped off…
tires spinning…
leaving a cloud of dust
and blue smoke
hanging in the air at the roadside…

‘oh, crap!’ Mike spat,
‘we’re in deep now!’

he and Jimmy climbed back
out of the underbrush
and focused on the car
disappearing in the distance…

it had only rolled about
a hundred yards or so
when it came to a screeching halt…
all four doors exploded open
in the middle of the road…
and the black guys,
screaming hysterically,
all raced in different directions
for the cover of the woods…
one scrambled onto the hood
and then the top of the car
to avoid an encounter
with tooth and claw…

a few seconds later
the grumpy Bobcat
jumped out of the car
onto the road, looked around,
and in a leisurely manner
bounded off into the brush…

the four men
still hollered in strident tones…
angry, but relieved at their
near miss with the
surprise in the suitcase…

Mike and Jimmy,
feeling assured they
weren’t in trouble
for their unplanned prank…
lay low in the bushes…
for a long time…
till the car finally drove away…
their sides hurting
from trying to stifle their
uncontrollable
boyish laughter…

damn…
that old Bobcat
had sure made their day…

I suppose the same could
be said for the men in the car too…

                                        R. C. Arquette
                                        12/13/03

The Rivers of Summer

2009-06-23T15:35:00.003-04:00

The Myakka river
slowly twists and rambles
through saw edged palmettos,
long needle pines, and sable palms
past wide eyed bony scrub cattle
chewing their cuds; tails swatting flies…
drifting past stately bearded oaks
hung in clumps of Spanish moss
all gathered together in stoic silence
like groups of twisted old men…

A lone, long shiny Black snake,
it’s dark forked tongue darting
sampling the still summer air,
tiny glass-like eyes unblinking,
searching out its next warm meal…
almost unseen to the casual observer
he comes slipping through the tall weeds…
down upon the sandy riverbank…
weaving through the cat tails, hyacinth,
disappearing into dried brown reeds…

An undulation of tepid river water,
the color of strong freshly steeped tea,
swirls in eddies round fallen trees,
ripples around old cypress stumps,
making a serpentine lazy passage
past humid sweltering swamp,
shady hammock, and at it’s end,
somewhere in the distance,
dissolving into the tropical waters
of the blue watered Gulf of Mexico

An Otter family plays
a rough and rolling game of tag,
a mother and her three young pups
racing the riverbank, tail to tail
chasing each other in and out
of the river’s friendly embrace…
the jester kings of their domain…
absorbed in momentary diversions
beneath the long blue June sky…
gone as quickly as they appeared…

Limp, moss covered, and gray,
the old rope swing hangs unmoving
tied to the highest branch
of a tall scrawny oak…
perched high on the eroded bank
it defies gravity…
much as the dozen teens
did on hot summer afternoons
swinging wildly over the river
in carefree youthful abandon…

Dragonfly sits balanced
on a long green Yucca spine…
he has the Scrub Jay’s rapt attention…
Turkey vultures glide high overhead
spiraling on a sky full of thermals
as big Crows move tree to tree
cawing their familiar calls…
Cicadas buzz with the change
in temperature as a big fluffy cloud
rises up to block a blazing sun…

The storm moves in quickly
as is the case on summer afternoons…
It’s dark mass rolling in from the east
chasing the birds ahead of it…
whipping the long strands of moss
into a chaotic dance among the branches…
lightning tracks flash in the distance…
thunder follows, growling a warning
and the old river grows darker
to match natures changing mood

The rain starts and at once, intensifies,
hurling down drops the size of grapes…
pounding the leafy green canopy above…
disrupting the calm of the river’s dark surface…
striking the steep dry sandy banks…
craters pock the water-starved earth
and puffs of dust erupt from the impacts…
the humid tropical air is rapidly replaced
by a cold wetness that awakens the landscape
alive and dripping from the watery renewal…

The events remain wonderfully the same…
acorns rise up from the leaf-strewn ground
finding their way into the sunlight overhead…
growing into the moss bedecked grandfathers
that provides cover for the life on the ground…
surrounding flora and fauna, without complaint,
reenact the relentless process of life and rebirth …
even the quiet river goes though abrupt change
in times of flood joyously finding new directions…
it’s only time that seems to permanently slip away

The old brown Myakka
slowly twists and rambles
through saw edged palmettos,
native slash pine, and sable palm
past lazing alligator and curious raccoon…
past wild pigs rooting, horned owls hooting…
drifting past stately bearded oaks
draped in strands of Spanish moss
all gathered together in stoic silence
like the old man standing silent on the shore…

R. C. Arquette
6/20/00

Aztec Heart

2009-05-03T15:53:00.003-04:00


Some fought
 so I'm told...
  they cried and cursed
    a bad showing...
     now they have come for me

       I've tasted life fully
        in this past year...
         I am the chosen
          and I'm ready
           to meet
            my sacred destiny...
             bathed...
              perfumed...
               dressed
                in the finest 
                 of garments...
                  with a cloak 
                   of fine feathers

                     The sun is warm
                    as I begin...
                   high to the temple  
                  I stride...
                 a ceremony 
                of sound 
               and splendor...
              I am proud

            Time grows near...
           stripped
          I'm laid on bare stone
         stained red
        from the many
       before me...
      soon to bear my stain...

    Bells ring...
   drums throb...
  a prayer of offering...
 of joy
is spoken

  My moment is here...
   obsidian dagger
    raised in priestly hands...
     sacred hands...
      with my last breath
       I see it flash...
        then plunge...

          Silence

Family Legends: The Scotty and the Toaster

2009-04-03T19:52:00.003-04:00

My cousins Dot and Ed…
were fond of ‘doggies’…
they had a small
canine buddy living
as a member of
their household
since their marriage…

their preference
were Scotties…
cute, black and white
animals that looked
like hairy animations
with whisk brooms
for faces…

Dot and Ed treated
all their doggies
as lovingly
and as dotingly
as they did their
own children…
the animals were
bright and quite active
and a delight to watch…
they spent many
hours chuckling over
the antics of their
current family friend…

the dogs had the run
of the house…
they slept on couches,
beds, chairs, or
wherever they
wanted…
they owned the place…

one morning…
as the story goes…
Dot and Ed were
sitting at the breakfast
table with my mom…
sharing coffee
and English Muffins…
the conversation was
light as they tried
to wake up and face
the new day…

at one of those
momentary lapses
that occur in such
conversation…
their Scotty…
named MacGregor…
ran into the kitchen
sniffing frantically
from person to person…
spinning circles
about the kitchen floor
like a shaggy
whirling Dervish…

Dot got up
and carried her
cup and saucer
to the sink
and rinsed it…
the dog was darting
in and out of her
feet as she walked,
but she ignored
him listening to
what mom and Ed
were talking about…

as Dot sat back down
the dog ran over
to a kitchen step stool…
it climbed quickly
to steps and jumped
on a low cabinet…
then onto the kitchen desk…
and finally onto the
kitchen counter…

the dog had the run of
the house, it was true,
but this was a bit much
for even Dot’s standards…
as they sat starring
at the dog, it stood starring
back at them…

Dot said, sternly,
‘Mac, get down off there
this very moment!!’…
the dog didn’t move….
She added,
‘you’ll be sorry if you
don’t get your hairy
little butt off that
counter right now!!’
the dog cocked its head…
stared at her blankly…

then in a move that
the dog would remember
for the rest of it’s doggie life…
it showed it’s defiance
by running up to the
shiny chrome toaster
that sat on the kitchen counter…
cocked his back leg
in that familiar doggie salute…
and let go an arcing
yellow stream
right into
the open slots
of the toaster…
an electric toaster
that happened to be
plugged in and fully
functional…

there was an instant flash…
and old Mac was
shot off the counter
and onto the floor
by the sudden introduction
of AC current to his
little doggie member…
the dog howled
in sheer terror and pain
as it scrambled to gain a foot
hold on the tile floor…
peeing uncontrollably…
it rocketed off
into distant rooms of
the house…
howling all the way…

it happened so fast that
the three at the breakfast table
were stunned…
looking at each other…
thinking about what
had just happened while
Mac howled in the distance….

all three burst into laughter
as Dot got up to go try
to sooth poor Macs
shattered nerves…

not only did the dog
never attempt this maneuver again,
but it also refused to ever
go back in the kitchen
for the rest of its
doggie life…

can’t blame him…

Transitions

2008-12-31T17:54:00.001-05:00

I scratched out lyrics
with a number two pencil
on the course pages of an
unused composition book…
a collage of thoughts
and dreams arranged there
the promise of a rock stars
the girls, the flash,
the fame was all it took…

I graduated to a clear plastic
Shaffer cartridge pen
peacock blue ink swirls
on Nifty notebook paper….
inspired by Poe’s dark
and gothic poetic images
I discarded lyrics for a
poets rhymes and rhythms
to share my visions
as a writer and word shaper…

I moved on to a
large yellow legal pad
giving me more acreage
to plant my images upon…
and a new Rapidograph pen
of pure jet black ink
that left a wondrous line
and the words flowed
across the page…

I received a treasure
an old portable Underwood
a clickity-clack black typewriter
a boys twelfth birthday gift…
it arranged my thoughts
neatly on each invisible line
spacing out the words
making my writing seem
so lightning swift…

I left home and found
the words had quickly slowed
as I became entangled
in the day to day…
with marriage and family
and working a real job
to provide security
and bring home my pay…

I received a surprise
from a special birthday gift
given me by my thoughtful
and grinning wife…
a sky blue
Smith-Corona electric
a speedy typewriter
that we both hoped
might change a writers life…
I banged out short stories
filling up paper by the tree
and sent them off to all sorts
of glossy waiting magazines…
I was told this was how it started
I read this was the way it was done
and if I overlooked the rejection
in obvious due time
it would led me to my dreams…

I put away the electric when
computers made the scene
it was faster, and neater,
and would correct all my mistakes…
it sent stores and poems galore
to one address after another
and received notes in return
which all seemed to echo
‘sorry, you ain’t got what it takes’

I write now for heart and mind
arranging my life upon the page
using the monitor and keyboard
on my fourth computer reincarnation…
I look back on all those pieces
like a puzzle of where I’ve been
and what I have become
smiling at changes and transitions
embracing dreams and limitations…

R. C. Arquette
12/20/05

Chalice

2008-12-02T14:58:00.006-05:00


Once…
        it seems like dreams ago…
        he set out on a daring quest…
        to taste of life from every cup…
each chalice pressed to lips
filled with sweet discovery…
filled with promise, passion,
        and persuasion…
a task which in his youth
he carried out with relish…
noting no two taste the same…
        each different
        and intriguing on their own…
some found sweet and cloying…
some floral and pungent…
some bitter and repellent…
yet never once was one denied…
all found heady and sublime…
        on occasions…
        indulging desire yet again…
delighted by a subtle rare bouquet
intrigued by a dark woody under taste…
        some again
        and again
        unable to get his fill…
        growing ever intoxicated
        with each new offering…
until at last
desire finally slaked…
he gave pause to reflect…
         conjuring
         that sensual sojourn
         attempting to define the best…
the one true captivating nectar
that had caused contentment…
a soft stirring in his breast…
         the one true elixir
         to be sought
         and secured …
         to captivate his spirit
         for a lifetime…
yet when he sought
that special find
that sweet intoxicant
to soothe his spirits…
he was distraught to find
        it had slipped away…
        acquired by someone
        more astute than he…
a person of some insight…
yet unaware of the rarity
of his acquisition…
oh lucky man…
        now he looks upon
        the empty chalice…
        he wets his lips
        remembering the nectar…
        sweet as plum wine…
        light as butterfly wings…
trying to accept 
a loss of bliss
once so close…in sips…

My Halloween of Pain

2008-10-16T19:15:00.002-04:00

When Halloween mischief
becomes more than a prank …
turning thoughtless and cruel…
the spirits of the night
have an unspoken way
of exacting a balance…
applying sudden doses
of pain and humiliation
to the unthinking
perpetrators
as punishment
for their foul deeds…
I know…
I was such a prankster…

at fifteen
too old for the door to door
‘trick or treat’ of childhood,
but always ready
for a Halloween of hijinks
and irritating trickery…
assemble three teenaged boys
on a moonless Halloween night
add a carton of fresh eggs
and Mr. Trouble
won’t be too far away…

the three of us
had seen toilet papered trees,
garbage cans turned over,
window soaped,
mailboxes battered
the usual deviltry
as we passed little groups
of ghosts, skeletons,
goblins and fairies
who laughed and squealed
as they moved
house to house
in the black velvet
cover of night…

our trio had been restrained…
enjoying the freedom
of wandering the streets
as if invisible…
wrapped
in a cloak of darkness…
while avoiding
the occasional
patrol car by hiding
behind buildings and hedges…

Gilbert was tired
of carrying his ‘dozen eggs’
and longed for a worthy target…
then, like a wish come true
around the next turn…
drifting into view
there appeared a house…
in the back,
a patio glowed in floodlight…
a tall fence surrounded
its perimeter…
adults laughing and drinking…
older folks by their sound…
having a Halloween
get together…
the yard outside the fence
was almost pitch black…
Gilbert grinned, ‘let’s do it!’…

we three zealots of mischief
quickly divided up the
‘cackle-berries’…
then standing back
thirty feet in the darkness
we let loose
a rapid fire volley…
each of us unleashing
four eggs in quick succession…
each dropping into the light
then disappearing
behind the fence…

the laughter stopped…
then the shouts rang out…
a women squealed…
men cursed…
the night came alive
as a gate was flung open…
light shot out in a bright ‘V’
across the corner of the yard…

the three of us jumped…
sensing death
and dismemberment
we took off at full bore
in opposite directions…
the adrenaline pumped
as I chuckled to myself
and sprinted awkwardly away
from the angry revelers…

I hadn’t raced twenty feet
when running full bore through a line
of tall, shaggy barked, punk trees
I hit a short, rolled wire fence,
invisible in the darkness…
which caught me across my thighs
and flipped me violently
over on my face
in the thick, damp grass…

confused by the sudden stop…
it had knocked the wind out me
and left me groaning into
the dirt and sod…
but the figures in the light
behind me grew closer
and louder…
I didn’t have time to lay there…
I had to make my get away
or suffer the wrath
of the mad party-goers…

I dragged myself to my feet…
wobbling on rubbery legs,
glanced over my shoulder
to see the angry crowd closing…
and then took off again…
running in a panic through
an open lot next door…

I was up to full run again
when my luck ran out…
a ¾ inch galvanized pipe
with a hose bib on it,
unseen in the darkness
and the panic of the moment,
stood firmly in my path…

the head and handle
caught me square in the crotch…
WHAM!…
suddenly the stars came out…
man, I saw lots of freakin’ stars!…
I was hurt…
and again upended, landing,
on my grass and dirt stained face…
this time I just lay there…
cupping my injured male parts…
the knife like pain in my belly…
causing the choked sounds
of me sucking air
to fill the cool, crisp, night air….

the unholy threats
of my pursuers slowly faded away…
the night grew silent around me…
I no longer cared if I was caught…
Because at that moment
I had only one thought…
all I wanted to do was die…

I lay there for an eternity
focused on the pain…
and eventually
I found myself alone…
managing to stagger to my feet,
whining sheepishly
I took my bruised ego
And my battered body parts
and limped off into the night…

later I met up with my buddies…
they were ready to continue
the nights adventures…
I wasn’t…
I didn’t go into details,
but do to my ‘delicate condition’
I bowed out…
indicating, ‘thank you very much,’
but I’d had far too much
fun for one night…
possibly too much fun for a lifetime…

that was my Halloween of pain…
the night I became a believer
in the laws of Karma…

and the last time I ever tossed
an egg at anything!

R. C. Arquette
1/13/04

The Night I was Mistaken for a Morlock

2008-09-09T23:37:00.005-04:00

'The Time Machine' (1960)

The Morlocks are restless...

The author H. G. Wells
wrote many wonderful books…
some volumes were comprehensive
collections of the history of the world…
while others,
considered more flights of fancy,
envisioned a distant future
of men and machines…
one such classic stands out,
‘The Time Machine’…

a man invents a machine
that carries him
backward or forward in time…
he eventually finds himself
in the distant future
in a world populated
by the youthful Elois
who are raised like cattle
in a world of plenty
overseen by a monstrous group
of underground mutants
called Morlocks…
cannibalistic ghouls
with grotesque features…

in 1960
the director George Pal
made the story into a movie…
it starred Rod Taylor
as ‘George’ the time traveler…

I was ten
my brother Jon was eight…
one Friday evening our mom
took us to see it at the Gulf Theater…

she loved to see movies and didn’t
care much what they were about…
she knew the story vaguely
and she knew Rod Taylor
from some biblical epic
she’d liked him in…
so that was enough
to get the three of us
out of the house for the evening…

we all ate popcorn,
drank RC Colas,
enjoyed the coming attractions,
cartoons, and finally the main feature…
all went very well…
we laughed at the funny stuff,
were amazed at the amazing stuff,
and jumped
and winced at the scary stuff…
by 10:00 pm Jon and I were home,
with our teeth brushed, pajamas on,
and tucked into our single beds
in a shared bedroom…

mom and dad had settled in watching
the old Zenith black and white
in the living room…
relaxing in the quiet…
absorbed in their viewing…
Jon and I soon drifted into sleep…

within a half an hour of dozing
I had to get up and use the bathroom…
I got out of bed and sleepily
weaved my way toward
the bedroom door…
in doing so
I groaned as I bumped
into the foot of Jon’s bed…

this was enough to wake him…
through sleepy eyes he saw me…
hunched over the bed
my darkened shape
was silhouetted in the light
behind me in the open doorway…
he let out a scream!…

it scared hell out of me
and I let out a scream as well!…

he screamed again!…
and I, fearing for my life,
turned and ran into the hall…

he was hot on my heels screaming…
and quickly was pawing at my back
trying to push me out of the way
so he could get by…
we both ended up
climbing over each other
all the way to the end of the hall…
spilling out into the living room
and falling in a writhing heap
on the floor…

both parents looked at us
in total, wide-eyed amazement…
mom leaping up to pull us apart…
dad grumbling at the display
once he figured out
we weren’t being murdered…

mom finally got us quieted down…
Jon quit sobbing long enough
to gasp out that there were
‘Morlocks in the bedroom!’…
mom grinned,
‘ohhhh, that’s what this is all about!’…
I said, ‘what?’
not sure that I’d heard him correctly…
‘there was a big Morlock on my bed
and it was coming to eat me!’
he gasped…
he was referring to me…
the Morlock at the foot of his bed…

‘that was me, you moron!’ I laughed…
mom smacked the back of my head,
‘don’t call your little brother a moron!’
dad grumbled again…
‘see what happens when you take
these two to those weird movies, Jane?’
he shook his head disgustedly,
‘you’ll have ‘em both up all night
with nightmares, squealing
like a bunch of loonies!’

mom led us back to bed…
calmed us down and tuck us in…
telling us to be quiet
and go to sleep…

she pulled the door to…
her feet padded off down the hall…
a moment past in the darkness…
I grinned, thinking
that this would there after
be the night I was mistaken
for a Morlock…

‘Morlock!’ groaned Jon, from his bed…
‘moron!’ I snapped back…

then as a final statement
to the whole evenings misadventure…
from down the hall
dad barked, ‘shut-up in there!’…

and we did…
for he was far scarier
than any Morlock ever was…

R. C. Arquette - 2/22/04

You Make My Ass Tired

2008-09-07T22:35:00.004-04:00


Too large
the burden tied
to Jethro’s straining back…
please ease the ropes
that bind…

unload
that animal…
and lay his burden down…
treat him fondly
and fair…

he stares
an angry stare…
I see it in his eyes…
the long day breaks
his spine…

I growl
with great disgust
‘you make my ass tired’…
all you can do
is shrug…

piss poor
excuse for a
humanitarian…
‘you make my ass
tired’

                      R. C. Arquette
                                  9/6/08

Geometry of the Living

2008-08-31T14:36:00.002-04:00

I don’t care for vertical
It all seems so upright and imperial
Because vertical implies a lofty need
For me lofty is just another nosebleed
And therefore defined non-essential
Found to be inconsequential

I’m not much for horizontal
It’s all too lifelike and elemental
Common position for sleep, sex and death
Only difference being a variance of breath
And in the end all too damn incidental
A wise mans image of contemporary hell

It’s these angles that I’m drawn to
Angles that define my world anew
On desktops, roadmaps, and daydreams
In art work, playgrounds, and street scenes
It’s tranquility and peace they’re giving
The angles in the geometry of the living

To a destination still yet unseen
Broken on occasion by an intersection
The lifeline stretches out in one direction
This angle filled line must be me
Since my birth is point AAnd death is point B

The Death of Religion

2008-08-16T21:25:00.001-04:00


A moving, warming sun
just one more inch to the right...
Then a beam, sparkling,
shoots through stained glass
across the pews
that shine in their emptiness...
Brushing over silvery tile,
over velvets and braid...
Finally settling
in righteous perfection
across a still 
troubled face...
Of one who needed...
One who waited
patiently...

But no one came…

Amen.

                     R. C. Arquette
                                       1970

The Rivers of Summer

2008-08-10T21:37:00.002-04:00

Frogtown Serenade

2008-08-09T20:33:00.004-04:00


The storm
comes rolling in
out of the east…
just like it does every
afternoon…
between three and four…
you can almost 
set your watch by it…
        a rolling cloud…
        that first looks
        like the ugly color
        of a big black eye…
        stretching across the sky
        from one end to the other…
        then as the wind rises
        it changes to 
        indigo black…
dark, water-filled 
tails whip off from
the leading edge…
lightning shoots from
its soft underside…
thunder rattles the
windows and sends all
the black birds,
sea gulls, and jays racing
off to the west…
chasing the sun..

the first
heavy drops
slap against the roof,
the sidewalk, 
and the steaming
asphalt in the street…
        in a moment
        the bottom falls out
        and the rain arrives 
        with a torrential roar…
the temperature drops…
cold air gusts through
the palms and pines…
lightning jabs the ground
close enough to touch…
followed by cannon
shots of thunder
that crack and boom…
cats and dogs run…
people jump
as they cover their ears
to the frightful barrage…

the storm drops
to a heavy, steady rain…
the rhythm…
a broken staccato 
on the roof…
dripping
from the eaves…
        I lie on my bed…
        the cool breeze 
        moves through the
        open window…
        the air is clean…
as I slip into
a contented sleep
listening…
a smile on my face
for the choir…

another rainy eve
spent with bullfrogs
and green,
tree peepers…
        a Frogtown Serenade…

R. C. Arquette
6/20/08

The Great Pick-Up Line Gone Bad

2008-08-06T16:33:00.002-04:00

In the ever-popular ritual of human courtship and mating, the ‘ice-breaker’ has been raised to the level of art form. Don’t be coy with me, you know exactly what I’m speaking of, we’ve all been involved in this event at one point or another. Yes, I’m referring to that opening line that must occur between one interested party and another; that line on which we balance the team of ego and libido. Of course I’m referring to the infamous ‘pick-up line,’ a rather unattractive phrase for something that we can’t really do without.

Some of us are better at picking the right line and the right time to use it, others flounder hopelessly for a lifetime trying to sound sincere. I’ve never been one for using pick-up lines, I was married too early to ever get a real chance to explore the practice, but I have heard a few that were rather creative or just downright terrible.

‘What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a joint like this?’ This old and feeble example is not even worthy of scorn on the part of its intended target. Another that jumps to mind, having been reworked into a country tune goes, ‘If I said you had a lovely body would you hold it against me?’ This is so bad it has become a bar-room classic. There are a million more of these chestnuts floating around, but like I said, I never had the need or want to use them so I can’t give you very many more illustrations.

The reason I bring this all up is not so much because of the pick-up lines themselves, but often the responses back can be even more entertaining, which brings me to this.

I used to work for Art, this little retired Bosons Mate, who was a cocky little man, round bellied, with a W. C. Fields gin blossom type nose. He was a funny guy who tried to puff himself up two or three times his normal size so those around would think he was tough. Actually he was a cream puff, but we all kept his secret. He loved the ladies, his after hours bouts with a bottle, and life in general.

He told me story once that stuck, about his early days in the Navy when he was stationed in Pensacola Florida. He spent about six months there before being shipped out to Vietnam to duty on one of the River Gun-boats that were so popular amongst the Viet Cong; a dangerous place to serve during active wartime. He saw many of his buddies killed along the waterways of the South.

He used to go into the Officer’s Club in the afternoon to have himself a couple snorts before heading off to eat or back to his quarters. Nine out of ten times when he went there, he’d find the same attractive woman, dressed to the teeth, sitting on an end barstool slowly smoking one cigarette after another while nursing a Manhattan. He asked the bartender about her one day and the guy told him she was the Base Commander’s wife. They evidently didn’t have much of a marriage left, so she spent her time sitting in the Club waiting for the next good looking guy in white (or beige) to come along. The bartender felt she’d probably bedded most of the men who came through the club. Art felt that maybe he’d been overlooked and decided to do something about it.

He had the bartender take the woman another drink. He watched the man put the drink in front of her, mouth something, and turn and walk away. The woman didn’t even look up. She finished her drink and then started in on the one Art bought her. He was a bit miffed, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily.

The bartender asked him what he was trying to do. Art said he’d like to get a little of that action if the lady was willing. The bartender smiled. Art asked him if he’d ever scored with the woman. The bartender said emphatically NO, indicating he had to work there and didn’t need the weight of a relationship with the Commander’s wife to get in the way of his paying the rent.

Art had a couple more drinks. He called the bartender over for another round for he and the lady. He asked him what he felt was the best approach with the woman. The guy didn’t bat an eye, replying that the direct approach was always the best. Tell her how you feel and what you want, if she wants the same, bam, you’re home free. Art thought about it, felt it was as good an answer as any, and since he was shipping out in a week, he went for it.

He hiked up his pants, put on his cap, paid the tab and tipped the bartender, and then sauntered the length of the bar to where the woman was sitting. He knew she could see him, but she didn’t look away from her drink.

He cleared his throat and said to her, ‘You have got to be one of the most beautiful women I’ve seen and I’d just love to get into your pants,’ and he waited for her to either slug him, scream, or get up and leave in a huff.

She did none of those things, instead she took a few seconds to put out her cigarette and take slow sip from her drink. Then for the first time since he’d seen her, she turned slowly and looked him square in the face. Without missing a beat, the woman calmly and flatly said (one of the all time great replies in the history of pick-up lines);

‘Well, you know I couldn’t really afford for that to happen,…because you see, I’ve already got one ass-hole in there as it is.’ She turned and resumed staring at her drink.

Art said his ego was a bit bruised, but he had to laugh…all the way out the front door of the Club and back to his digs. She’d got him, but he’d also gained a story that he would tell again and again for a lifetime.

As for me, every time I’ve seen an attractive woman sitting at a bar I’ve heard that line come spinning around again. So I finish my drink, pay the tab, tip the bartender, and quietly go home with a grin on my face…but my ego intact. Thanks Art, for saving me the scars.

Your Faithful Reporter - RCat

Forgotten Faces on Thrift-Shop Shelves

2008-08-05T16:00:00.004-04:00

that stale smell
a sour mix of age
born of tobacco smoke,
sweat, cooking grease,
brittle paper, plastic,
and baby odors
it hangs like London fog
in any thrift shop,
in any town,
anywhere…

it fills the aisles
as we collectors
and deal seekers search
cruising the shelves
like hungry wolves,
looking for game
in search of
like-new tee shirts,
blue jeans worn at the knee,
colorful collector glassware,
old yellowing books,
well worn dolls
arcane golf clubs,
canes, crutches
and walkers
left behind by those
healed or past on
the castoffs of life
litter the shelves…

handled by the elderly
incomes demanding thrift
the upscale looking
for a find to grace a trophy case
and impress a snobbish friend
the homeless and poor
grimy and worn
eyes wide looking
for warmth and wear
street kids from the suburbs
looking for costumes
to state independence
that flash ‘check me out!’
the young and old
grazing the fields of the used
one mans trash
another mans treasure….

and always somewhere
in a corner, a barrel,
a table or a bin
stand clustered in chaos
the oil paintings, prints,
and old frames
call them gifts
or ugly mistakes
purchased
on bad vacations
passed on
by sweet aunt Rose
painted
by myopic cousin Stewart
found wrapped
offered for birthdays,
forgotten anniversaries,
Christmas under the tree
only later
to be found buried in attics
hidden in dark basements
dust covered in garages
next to become
remnants of an estate
garage or yard sale
unwanted
artistic refuse
of a world with
incredibly bad taste
and the desire to buy anything…

next to the paintings
is a sad but familiar corner
full of aging picture frames
in gilt, wood, metal,
and tortoise shell
fifty cents to maybe three dollars
all waiting to be refilled
with current friends and kin
all rifled through
a hundred times
left at every angle and condition
some twisted and broken
some with glass missing
most with a lost photo
a sepia toned shot
filled with history
filled with a need
to be somewhere else
to be loved
not tossed aside…

a couple on their nuptial day
smiling for a future
now obviously long since past
a soldier in his uniform
someone’s brother or son
left upon a beach at Normandy
a little girl in high button boots
with a china head doll
a little boy with girlish curls
in knickers with his sleepy dog
a stoic family in gingham aprons,
overalls, and stove pipe hats
people of the fields
a hundred
different faces
in a thousand
different stores
all the people
of a million lifetimes
left here nameless
and forgotten
a morgue
for departed memories
a graveyard
for these people now unknown
all their good times
and their bad times
etched here
upon each staring face
a history in wrinkles
a promise in a smile
joy within the gleam reflected
in a chocolate colored eye…

each time I’m here
it causes me to stop
and look into those images
those oh so familiar faces
while thinking
once again
how we all could live forever
if we could
just keep from ending up
among the forgotten faces
on Thrift Shop shelves….

R. C. Arquette 2/8/04

Squirrel Fishing with Lefty & Iron Balls McGinty

2008-07-03T23:44:00.004-04:00


I enjoyed floating through an afternoon
at my late, great, brother Jon’s;
a can of Busch beer in hand…
my butt on a picnic table bench…
getting numb with nature
in the greenness
of ‘Drunken Gardens’

among the Ironwoods and Brazilian Pepper
            sitting long stretches without a word
                              lost in thought or boredom
               occasionally going for another beer
                                                or to take a pee…
              maybe passing on news of someone
                     or something of mutual interest
                   while the sounds of Freddie King
                                      or Stevie Ray Vaughan
                       painted the air with the blues…

on hot days the Kmart wadding pool
offered a Scooby-Doo wet spot to cool down
a can of old golf balls and a driver at hand
offered an oft used diversion
tearing line-drives through
the Kudzu vines…
and occasionally…
squirrel fishing

Jon had two hand-feed, fuzzy tailed tree rats
               who reigned over Drunken Gardens;
   a pair of skittish, wire tailed, gray squirrels
             that gave inspiration to a new sport…
  one the Olympic committee had overlooked
            in their quest for curious competition,
      but gave the human guests to the gardens
                        cause for intoxicated interludes
                                                         of sheer joy…
                                                 and stark terror…

the female had a nick out of her right ear
she was aggressive and fearless
Jon called her Lefty…
the male was the target of Lefty’s abuse
she controlled the yard
he was only there because she let him
she let him because he had giant gonads
that dragged the ground between his legs
when she was ready he was ready
so she kept him around
Jon called him Iron Balls McGinty,
for obvious reasons…

both of these yard sharks loved peanuts
         Jon bought jumbo bags of peanuts
                        He had the market curbed
   on un-salted jumbo roasted peanuts…
      Jon always maintained three things:
                                       Beer, toilet paper,
 and un-salted jumbo roasted peanuts…
    we’d run out of beer and toilet paper,
             but there were always peanuts…
                             squirrels can be vicious
                       if you run out of peanuts…

Jon also had a bicycle, a surfboard,
and an aging fishing pole
that laid around his back room
for the most part untouched…

                       he rewound the fishing reel
in the leafy surroundings of the gardens
                              leaving the fishing pole
                            leaning against the table
                 for half a Saturday afternoon…
                              a partial bag of peanuts
                 sat a couple feet away awaiting
          the mother of invention to arrive…
                                                         she did…

  mono-filament line with a tiny lead weight
tied at the center of a roasted jumbo peanut
                                                became the bait…
               tossed with a marksman’s accuracy
                             the line spun out thirty feet
                      dropping the goober near Lefty
             and getting her immediate attention
                           she hopped toward the bait…

we all grinned
leaning forward on the bench
to observe the engagement
of man and raw nature
man versus wary squirrel
a battle of wits where only one animal
could walk away…
[a dozen times if the line didn’t break]

                        Lefty snatched the peanut
                        but Jon was quick to tug…
                the dry brown shell popped up
and danced a few feet away in the grass
                   the tree rat bounded forward
                   lunged for the nut and it was
                                 popped away again…
                                       reeling in the line
            moving the nut closer and closer
                                    to the picnic table…

across the yard it moved in grabs
and jerks
the nut flew up
Lefty bounced to attack
it reached the bench
the  squirrel went up after it
flopping around it was finally secured
in the chiseled front teeth
of the frantic rodent…

                            in a tenacious grip
 the animals teeth and front paws
                    held on to the fat prize
                      as it became airborne
                         lifted by the peanut
                          leaving the bench…
         up, up, up onto the table top
the creature wiggled and writhed
      little grunts and chirps issued
       from between clenched teeth
               as it spun like some mad
                              whirling dervish
               in a crazed peanut ballet
 tugging relentlessly at the bait…

the members of the fishing expedition
were in convulsions of laughter…
spilling beer and holding back
from peeing themselves
as the insane visage of Lefty
being slowly spun above the table top…
refusing to let go of the nut of her dreams…
she battled on…

                  a final twang of the plastic line
                      a quick dash across the yard
and the peanut and squirrel were gone…
                         squirrel fishing was born…

of course there were others
squirrels don’t mind looking foolish
if there is a fat peanut as the outcome
so there were many more encounters
that went down in the backyard of summer

                                          Jon is gone now
            he and his liver had a falling out
         Lefty and Iron Balls left offspring
      and finally moved on following Jon
     the little wooden house is still there
but drunken gardens aren’t the same…

yet every time I pass
I see ghosts of memory at play
acting out the good times
missing moments shared
when life was simple and silly
and a true gentleman’s pass time
like squirrel fishing
was the only thing
that was real…

                   R. C. Arquette 
                                              4/17/03

The Road to Mudcrutch Farm

2008-06-28T21:53:00.003-04:00

Just a flash past Dub's,
out on thirteenth,
the sunday assembly just kept growin'
drifting down the dusty side street
Dirt freak daddies
with their Hogtown old ladies
huggin' bottles of wine
and fat bouncing babies

They smelled the music
and heard the smoke
Pine trees swayin' in a warm summer haze
Laughing out loud at their own jokes
Homegrown denim,
peasant girls with hair swingin'
Sweet hip shakin' mommas
their young bodies swayin'

And that was the charm
walkin' arm and arm
feelin' free
on the road to Mudcrutch farm
High time laughin'
and barefoot dancin'
down the road to Mudcrutch farm

The band was rockin'
in the side yard
sending Byrds high on an afternoon sky
while John B. Good stroked his guitar
Cheshire cat smiles
and sleepy eyed styles
pulled the rest of them in
as they danced that last mile

Long haired floaters
lost in the moment
watchin' the crazy old world spin away
groovin' in laid back contentment
The tie dyed ones
Mother Nature's sons
trippin' to the back beat
beneath a Gainesville sun

And that was the charm
walkin' arm and arm
feelin' free
on the road to Mudcrutch farm
High time laughin'
and barefoot dancin'
down the road to Mudcrutch farm

R. C. Arquette
9/22/95

Humankind

2008-06-24T22:24:00.001-04:00

I discovered early on my true aversion for my "fellow man."I use that phrase, "fellow man" loosely, for I try to think of myself apart from the unwashed rabble as much as I can. Not because I'm an elitist, I feel far from it; I am assuredly a man with feet of clay, but because the general quality of the people I meet, ranked on an unwritten scale of rudeness, personality, intellect, empathy, etc., falls far below the expectations of your typical whining fifth grader. I'm sure you've been exposed to these people on a daily basis as I have.

People like: the overweight woman in hot pants, tube top, cell phone pressed to her head, yelling at someone about picking up the "friggin' house" before she gets home, with 3 hacking grubby kids climbing all over everything while she digs through a purse the size of Delaware in search of her checkbook. She's ahead of you in the express line at the grocery store (no checks please) with a cart full of sugary breakfast cereal and beer (10 items or less, HA!)and you're standing there with a loaf of bread, a gallon of melting ice cream, and cash in hand! This is when I wish I owned a stun gun!

Or how about the chick behind the counter at the Drug Store on the phone with one of her goofy friends comparing how drunk they were at the teen-orgy of the night before; ignoring the fact you, or the three people in line behind you exist.

Oh to have a bull-horn and a seltzer bottle!

Then there was the woman who wanted to know if I knew an electrician to change the wall switch and receptacle plates in her house...the two screws had her baffled and in fear of electrocution!

What?...There I stand, slack-jawed in amazement!

How far do these people go? How ignorant and unthinking can they get?

Check out the Darwin Awards web site if you'd really like to see just how totally "zoned" our species can get...it's amazing!

And be careful out there...they lurk at every corner!

Your Faithful Reporter - RCat

A Timeline for our Preoccupation

2008-06-21T18:50:00.002-04:00


So it begins…

Initiation
Attraction
Connection
Communication
Conversation 
Exploration
          Acceptance [advance one space]
                     or rejection------------ > Start over
Deeper communication
Expanded conversation
Closer exploration
Established relations
Increased personal attention
           Acceptance [advance one space]
                      or rejection------------ > Start over
Mutual intention
Growing excitation
Physical stimulation
           Acceptance [advance one space]
                      or rejection ----------- > Start over
Increased excitation
Rapid stimulation
Total sensual immersion
Penetration
Copulation
Duration
            Ten seconds 
                      of maximum sensation
Repetition or exhaustion
           Acceptance [advance one space]
                      or rejection----------- > Start over
Love or lust decision
           Acceptance [advance one space]
                       or rejection---------- > Start over
Continued repetition
Marriage inception
Declining repetition
           Continuation [advance one space]
                      or divorce------------ > Start over
Continued repetition
More imagination
           Continuation [advance one space]
                     or celibacy------------ > Start over
                                                                        |
                                                                 Give up
                                                                        |
                                                                  Croak!
So it ends…
All else is but various ‘wet spots’ in time…

                                                       R. C. Arquette 
                                                                   4/21/04

Blue Lotus

2008-06-14T20:27:00.003-04:00


Magic 
Beneath the moon 
Our heated passions rise 
Effects of the Blue Lotus bloom 
                                    Aroused 

Aroused 
Night sky above 
Tangled in each other 
We Blue Lotus eaters shudder 
                                       Magic 

Magic 
That which consumes 
Merging two into one 
The Blue Lotus blending our flesh 
                                        Aroused 

Aroused 
Then the fire fades 
Exhausted we find sleep 
The gift of the Blue Lotus flower 
                                         Magic 

Magic 
Beneath the moon 
Inflamed emotions rose 
The spell of the Blue Lotus bloom 
                                        Aroused 



                                 R. C. Arquette 
                                        5/17/01

"SEX!!"

2008-05-31T17:24:00.001-04:00

It’s the consummate sales pitch, the one supreme idea that led to the biggest winner for capturing human attention. Summed up in three letters, a concept that wherever the word appears, grabs our subconscious and demands attention. A little ‘three letter’ word that printed in bold type stands out against a sea of words or the emptiness of a pristine white page. You’ve seen it. You’ve reacted to it as well, whether you’d like to admit it or not, and been drawn back to it again and again. Like the trick your old man used to play on you, pulling a nickel from behind your ear, over and over, you knew it was a trick, but you went for it every time. The same trick applies here, over and over you’ve seen it and been taken in, you can’t help it, it’s like a wreck at the side of the road; you have to look in spite of all your civilized pretensions. What three letter word could possibly have such effect on mankind? Like you didn’t know; it’s SEX.

The printed word, SEX, is certainly enough to get the attention of any healthy human being with the ability to read, but we can take this a step further. It’s been said that ‘a picture is worth a thousand words,’ another wonderful human concept, one that I can totally agree with, and when it comes to SEX it takes on an even more powerful relevance.

We humans react to visual stimuli. Show someone a picture of a juicy steak and like Pavlov’s Dogs they start to salivate. Flip open the latest issue of Penthouse to a gatefold spread and most young males suddenly find a pleasant stirring in their ‘jockey shorts.’ I would venture to say that women experience some warm and friendly reaction to the centerfold in Playgirl as well. They are reacting to the visual images of the human body, either engaged in some provocative behavior for the camera, or simply nude and displayed for the viewers appreciation and libidinous lust. This is why Playboy, Penthouse, Gallery, Hustler, Playgirl, and the plethora of other such printed material became so popular back in the 1960’s and remains of adult interest to this day. Even though sales have fallen off for the magazine publishers, there has been an expanded interest in the video releases available with SEX as the theme.

What is now referred to as a ‘porno empire’ is merely the extension of the sexual interest born back in the 50’s with those little ‘Tijuana bibles’ that parodied familiar cartoon characters of the day involved in all sorts of sexual situations, or their cousins, the tiny ‘photo bibles’ which were poorly produced miniature books of crude looking people posed in sexual acts in black and white; the ‘black bar’ over the eyes to protect the not so innocent, or the guys naked except for their socks, where often among the humorous images presented.

This proved there was a market for sex, but it needed to be legitimized in order to maximize sales and make it publicly acceptable; a fight from the start. There was, and is, a group of protectors of the public morality, a ‘league of decency’ if you please, that are always there trying to protect us from the evils of SEX. Anything relating to the issues of SEX, other than an unfortunate description for ‘how babies are made,’ has always had these morality experts pulling their wagons in a circle to fend off the legion of smut peddlers they’ve sworn to eradicate. In spite of their efforts the selling of SEX for recreational purposes has blossomed to a billion dollar a year cash cow. People are always going to find a way to get whatever it is they’re told they can’t have, something we all learned as kids, but these folks seem to have forgotten.

SEX just isn’t something we drag out from under the bed in a box along with the ‘orgy butter’ and ‘the ultimate intruder’ vibrator. Today, as most days, you will find sex everywhere you look. Why? As we’ve discovered it’s of universal interest and thus becomes a co-opted tool of advertisers and those with a product to sell. If you hook your feminine hygiene spray, shampoo, mouthwash, condoms, cigarettes, booze, underwear, clothing, cars, candy, or any of zillion other items to SEX you sell more of your product. Are we surprised? Should we be surprised? No, I think not, but we shouldn’t be so quick to deny the fact that it’s happening. A lot of folks, many card carrying members of the ‘league of decency,’ deny the implications of a woman moaning her way through a heavy shampoo, her silhouette shown undulating on the steamy shower door, but the rest of us know what that sound is and it isn’t just the appreciation of shiny clean hair.

The reason all of this takes place is inherent. Human beings are arguably the thinking animal, but an animal nonetheless. We have been questionably gifted with a brain and having been so gifted, we have invented all sorts of things to make our lives better, while distancing ourselves further and further from our natural animalistic past; or at least that’s what we’d like to believe. It’s hard to shake some behaviors, even after fifty thousand years of evolving.

With our two essential needs, survival and procreation, we have moved through history attacking and defending whatever we’ve encountered in order to stay alive. Wars are fought over land, wealth, foodstuffs, and water rights in the name of survival; we have to protect the family unit, the tribal unit. No longer the hunter-gatherers of our distant ancestors generation, now living in fixed sites, cities and towns, we fight to survive in an urban or suburban landscape. We developed new concepts derived from our ability to work with abstract thought, but in doing so, we still have never overcome the need to survive and to bear young, and with all probability we never will.

The need to bear young, to reproduce and insure that the species will survive, is the crux of existence for all life forms. This desire to reproduce is seen early in the development of a species, sometimes based on seasonal cycles, sometimes merely based on the advantage of a current situation. Humans, ‘the hairless ape,’ developed an open approach. Whether through evolution or grand design, the female of the human species isn’t required to enter a ‘heat’ in order to facilitate a coupling for the purpose of producing offspring. It has become a matter of choice on her part when approached by a male of the species to either except or reject his advances. It’s a matter of fact in the wild; remember the adage ‘only the strong survive,’ those males showing the best traits and strengths are allowed to mate with the female, thus insuring the best traits will continue into the next generation. It’s just like the hundreds of true life studies we’ve seen on television over the years; the magnificent Stag coming down the mountain to joust with younger males and assure his position as head progenitor. Humans do this too, in a modified version, since we have elevated ourselves to a higher pedestal than the rest of our animal kin, but the outcome is still the same.

The main difference, I observe, may be that you’ll never find a self-respecting Stag hanging out in a bar, trying to hit on a horned and ‘horny’ female counterpart, asking wittily, ‘Hey baby, what’s your sign?’ Yet this is where a great deal of the ‘rutting’ that goes on among the human animal starts out; maybe we haven’t really come as far as we’d like to think we have with our role as ‘civilized man, the king of beasts!’

We spend our lifetimes with SEX at the center of our universe, the unifying force that drives us all; men and women dress to allure, using, perfumes, makeup, and specific clothing to make their intentions known. It all seemed to work pretty damn good up until the last twenty years. Now, because the male has traditionally been thought of as the pursuer, the dominant member of the selection process, our civilized way of thinking now leaves him ridiculed or redressed for what others perceive to be ‘old school’ thoughts about his sexually driven nature.

How did this come to pass? Was it some careful thinking on the part of the wise old members of our society? Or was it more like a current article in Cosmopolitan magazine or Young Ms.? We may never really know, but it’s safe to say it wasn’t a group of men sitting around drinking beer that came up with it. More than likely it was some of those ‘thinking folks’ among us (a dangerous lot) who came to the conclusion that there should be an equality of the sexes, sounds good, but it’s another human attempt to change the natural order of things; something we, as a species do a lot of, but not very successfully; a point that has been illustrated over and over down through our history.

Women should now be able to make the moves on the male of her choice, show some dominant qualities, while the men are now told they need to be gentle and understanding and more in tune with ‘their feminine side.’ Should we be surprised at this? Probably not, because it’s just like humankind to take something as simple and functional as SEX and turn it upside down to make it more ‘civil.’ Impose order on SEX by having us all do our guarded and selective ‘rutting’ quietly behind closed doors instead of nosily and at random in public places. Not only does it take all the fun out of it, but it turns us all into a bunch of guilt ridden anal retentives, a condition that the administrators of the worlds organized religions just love; which is why they are the key proponents of ‘birth without sex;’ it happened once 2000 years ago, so now it’s expected to be the norm. I suppose the fact that conception is taking place in a lab dish is just the next logical extension of this way of thinking. We have finally moved what is the central driving force of the human universe, SEX, to the very edge of manipulated insanity.

It’s funny though, as much as mankind screws around with restricting, changing, rationing, or legislating our sexual urges, the more people will find a new and better way to fool around; if there is any question at all about this happening just look at the huge SEX toy industry that has risen to tease our fancy; so to speak. An industry that has as it’s unwritten motto, ‘Where there is a need, there is a battery powered tool to offer satisfaction or double your money back.’ It all becomes laughable, more of that ‘school boy giggling and guilt,’ when you consider it all to be such a natural act, a joyful and exciting experience and after all is said and done, it comes down to about ten seconds worth of pulsing pleasurable bliss.

So what’s the big deal about SEX? All this for ten seconds of bliss? Maybe we all need to find a hobby?

Your Faithful Reporter - RCat

Smoke

2008-05-26T16:30:00.006-04:00

Smoke
A sweet smoking friend
all rolled in rice paper
enlightens
enriches
this poor tired shell

Give me cool music
a dry white wine of distinction
that graces
and laces
my mind with content

Blue cloud hangs suspended
encircles my head like a halo
this fellow
feels mellow
drifts near sleeps edge

Mama's baking up brownies
the aroma so seductive
chocolaty
sweet munchies
fills me full of grins

Rolling with my sexy lady
sliding through the moment
she giggles
and wiggles
we share another toke

Drifting into inner space
I kiss the lady's sweet lips
she sleeps
we sleep deep
wrapped in earthy smoke

R. C. Arquette 5/17/73

I Learned from the Best

2008-05-15T18:14:00.005-04:00

I grew up
living four doors
down from Peter Pan…
we spent
elementary school
in too many adventures
to recall…
running with
The Lost Boys…
battling pirates
and Indians…

during
my awkward
jr. high school days…
the Marvel superheroes
set up headquarters
a couple blocks
from my folks house…
for awhile
I hung around
the mutant X-Men
and moody Hulk…
but I soon grew bored
with their comic book
routine…

so I found
a summer job mowing
Mr. Hefner’s lawn…
a large estate
in a high end
part of town…
with a big, green lawn…
he tipped real well…
always stopped
to ask how I was doing…
a real class act…

it was an
eye opening
experience for me…
I learned anatomy
from the beauties
that hung out
around his pool…
life seemed grand
and I mistakenly
believed
I had the world
by the short hairs…

when I started
high school
the next year
a new kid…
James Dean…
raced down my street…
into my neighborhood…
and showed me
just how confused
I really was…
the world
was a tough place…
often a cruel place…
I hadn’t seen it…
but I learned quick…
another confused
teenager stumbling
through life’s
mine-fields…

James
gave me a copy
of ‘Catcher in the Rye’…
my eyes were opened…
I learned about angst
and teen rebellion…
and how no one
could understand me…
not the real me…
poor angry me…
I learned to revel
in my pain…

then fate stepped in
and Jimmy checked out
behind the wheel
of his fast car…

and this
sad teen
wannabe
ached for more…

so interests
led me into the
realm of rock n’ roll..
the voice of the
put-upon teen…

and it was
at this time
I started hanging out
at Zappa’ house…
and got into the
intellectual craziness
of his band of
Mothers…

my hair grew…
my mind expanded…
and I was dumped
into a world
of Zen and Tao…
of LSD and Psilocybin…
of Herman Hesse
and Ken Kesey…
of Carlos Castenadas
and Allen Ginsburg…
of Led Zepplin
and the Fugs…

and
when I was finally
squeezed out the
far end of the 60’s…
I’d been across
the country
three times…
been to art school
in the Vieux Carre…
worked the clubs
on the Sunset Strip…
crashed in Berkley…
cruised the Haight…
and sowed those
seeds we heard
about as kids…

today
I can reflect
on my grand education…
and look at where it
has taken me…
at where I’ve been…
and feel fortunate
that I have learned
from the best…

me
and the lost boys…

R. C. Arquette
10/2/07

Family Legends: Earthquake Informal Wear

2008-05-10T17:15:00.003-04:00

It was
in San Francisco…
a magnet
for earthquakes…
the year
was circa 1936…

my old man
arrived home
a little after 4:00 am…
he was a sax
player in a jazz band…
this was his
typical hour to
to make it home
from his nightly gig…

he no sooner
started to pull off
his shoes when a
violent rumbling
shook the room
around him…

as things fell
to the floor
he woke my mom
and they quickly
made their way
down a swaying
stairwell…
three floors
and out to the
city street…

the evening
was chilly…
the streetlights
flickered..
neighbors had fled
their beds and
apartments
and were
clustering
up and down the
center of the street…

the first quake
had now stopped…
but there were
aftershocks that
pulsed…

my dad looked up
to see a man
standing nearby…
in his fright
to escape the
danger of being
trapped inside by
falling debris
he stood there naked…

‘Hey,’ he yelled
at the shivering man…
‘go put something on
are you crazy…
you’ll freeze your
ass off out here like that!’

my mom
and several others
stood chuckling
at the man…

he looked at himself
and then at the
building…
his eyes wide
with fright…

my dad yelled again,
‘go on!..go put
something on!’

the man
bolted off like
a scared rabbit…
disappearing into
the rattling building…

a few minutes later
and they all looked
up to see the man
had returned…

he was again
standing in the street
staring at the building…
out of breath…
one hand covering
his crotch…
the other firmly
holding his straw hat
to his head…

‘yeah, that’ll do the trick,’
my dad yelled at him…

the fellow
turned and grinned
a silly frightened grin…

the rest of the folks
in the street
all burst into howls
of laughter…

R. C. Arquette 11/3/07

I Think...Therfore I'm Confused

2008-05-10T17:06:00.002-04:00

Somewhere
in my journey…
past equidistance…
at that point
where the light
receding
is dimmer
than the light
approaching…
I find myself
watching another day
drop silently
under the weight
of an orange sun…
disappearing
behind
bearded oaks
and gangly
yellow pines…
the air grows still
the gray of evening
fills in the shadows
beneath bushes
and trees…

so
I’m here
once again…
pondering the
tenuous balance
of life
and the universe…
which
I suddenly find
is about
as satisfying
as taking a shower
with my clothes on…
this is why
my ancestors drank…
and my peer group
has grown up
in a pharmaceutical
purple haze…

the sun sets
as I return to my
3 bedroom,
2 ½ bath cave…
arriving at my
latest profound
revelation and
philosophical thought:

‘I think,
therefore I’m confused”…
drink up…

R. C. Arquette 8/27/07

Poetry 101

2008-04-28T20:12:00.002-04:00

I have plenty to grouse about; to whine and complain about, but at the moment I'm feeling more wise and profound than grouchy and miserable. Because of this I think I'll share some thoughts that you may find useful rather than complain at length about something I can't change anyway. If you're as big a whiner and complainer as I am, then all this will seem very pretentious and you'll dismiss me as some dull old fart who should keep his thoughts to himself. I hope it's the former not the later, but either way..it's my freakin' journal and if you have read this far without moving on then you deserve what you get...so there!

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!

In the intervening years, I have explored form, style, and structure in poetry and attempted to grow. In hindsight, I find most of what I learned in that first class has faded into the gray recesses of fading memory. However, there were two important ideas I learned that have stuck with me over the years. Two elemental points that pop up every time I talk to new poets or to young poets starting out. I pass them on because to me they have become the foundation for what poetry is built upon.

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.These two simple 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.

Okay, I've said my piece. I hope you found it of value..if not, well...they all can't be gems, right? So check back next time and I'll be back to my usual complaining self...I promise. Now go find something to do...it's time for my nap!

Your Faithful Reporter - RCat

Counting Stars

2008-04-28T19:32:00.004-04:00

On evenings when the air hugs me like warm, damp cotton,
While crickets and cicadas buzz among the branches of the oaks...
Or on those nights when my moist breath hangs in clouds on cool, dry air,
I find myself running through a familiar routine...
Looking into the indigo blue of a clear night sky...
Counting Stars

As a boy I lay in deep Bahia grass with the earth pressed against my spine,
Eyes wandering a night sky in search of alien craft and shooting stars...
Then as a teenager, confused, feeling lonely and incredibly small,
I could always find a quiet spot and a piece of starry blackness...
A personal place that never seemed to change and always invited me in...
To come and share in the vastness of a nighttime sea of lights...
Counting stars

Seasons cycle as sunset follows sunrise all with the rhythm of time,
And with it I became upright and tall and took my place among men...
And as I've aged I've had to make a great many decisions,
Some were good, some were bad, and for some the outcome is still unknown...
And of those that I thought were so right, many turned out wrong...
In reflection I'm tired and I hurt, longing for the sky...
Counting Stars

In the midst of the dull and sedentary sameness of my day to day,
I've rediscovered a part of my life that's brought me new joy...
Yet, as is the case with treasures found late, it comes with a price,
Time and distance act as walls that thwart a communion of souls...
Giving the rekindled flame of serenity an unwanted coolness...
Leaving me alone to gaze at the shared velvet blackness...
Counting Stars

In the hustle and bustle of humanity surrounding us each day,
And in the frustrations that follow and befall us every one...
With people reaching out from this smallness to cling to life,
I can take comfort in the daily arc and fall of each day's sun...
Awaiting the coming of Morpheus and his heavy cloak of darkness...
Knowing that distance at least can be forever bridged...
Counting Stars

Elevator Scenes: Doors with Teeth

2008-04-26T16:26:00.004-04:00

I approach the beast once more…

It’s shiny jaws wait silently
I sense the razor edged teeth
It's waiting to chew me up
It's seen me again...
It pretends that it hasn't
I know it's seen me though
It always sees me...
It just better not seize me
I know it will try
It tries a vertical smile
It wants me to feel safe
It's there to help me
It's there to serve me
It's there to move me...
I need to get to the outside
I need to get to the street
I have to let it move me
It knows I hate the dark stairs
I quickly punch it's cold button
It comes to life
It growls gears and cable below
I feel the throaty vibrations
I feel them running through me
It resonates my skeleton
It's moving closer
I hold my breath
It stops
It moans and those jaws move
I watch them slide wide open
It's toothy salivating grin
It gapes
It's waiting
I feel my heart trying to explode

A head pops around the corner
"Hey...are ya' gettin' in?
I got laundry in the basement
and it's callin' my name!"

"Just hold that door!" I choke

I quickly cross the vicious maw
I avoid those jaws once more
I've made it into the waiting car
I've escaped death yet again
It's jaws close with a low hiss
I see my face reflected on the wall
It looks like it's swallowing me
I'm all at once dizzy and pale
It emits a knowing purr
I have to ride again back home
It's doors clamp shut
I shiver
It chuckles…

Thanks, it was Fun while it Lasted

2008-04-20T22:32:00.003-04:00

One Wednesday afternoon
in 1982 or so…
somewhere around
2:37 PM EST…
in an unscripted version
of mass thought
started to change things…

while the population
of the U S of A went about
the daily activities of
life, liberty, and the
pursuit of big screen tv…
something subtly changed…
marking a change
forever…

we had been
at the pinnacle…
at the height of creation
and progressive thought…
but that stalled…
things slipped
toward the static…
it was the murky point
that marked the beginning
of another fall
of another empire…
and so we all blindly went
coasting into decline…

a myopic lot grown
satisfied with the status quo…
feeling we had arrived…
our society was at last where
it needed to be…
ranking among the greatest
of the greats…
fat and complacent…
comfortable and unchallenged…
there would be no further need
for higher education…
for discoveries in mathematics
or the explorations of science…

instead we fixed our sights
on societal order…
and turned to arguing
the ethereal points of religion
and the need for refined morality…
as the rest of the world…
in a foreign accent…
laughed behind our back…
plotting quietly…
working steadily
just beyond the fringe…
raising awareness
along with they’re levels
of progress, advancement,
and prosperity to match…
carrying on the shining example
we had offered in the west…

they learned well…
they moved ahead…
and while we all went about
our contented routine…
moving through the dull
and uninspired…
we allowed our complacency
to leave us all thrashing
in the dust…

a country full of willing
underachievers…
now a mirror of the
parade of civilizations
that have come before…

observe
the handwriting on the wall…
listen for that vast sucking sound…
and prepare for the next phase
as we all will
quickly become
one more historical footnote…
in the record of time…

R. C. Arquette
5/2/05

Dog Tails: Argus

2008-04-20T01:07:00.002-04:00

It was 1970
I was twenty
and still a few months
away from marriage and a family…
I was living in Gainesville Florida
home of the ‘Florida Gators’
and had moved into
a large two story house
with five other people…
most of whom were students…

a funny
and good natured Jim Kelly
was one of the roommates…
he brought with him
his big Saint Bernard,
an awesome looking animal
named Argus…

Argus…
a strong and fitting name,
was a large clumsy beast…
ordinarily sweet tempered…
who loved having
his chest pounded…

as this therapy was applied,
his back leg would
involuntarily slap the floor,
his tongue hanging out,
eyes closed, in sheer dog ecstasy…

Kelly raised Argus from a pup
so the dog was always
quite protective…
no one ‘messed with Kelly’
without having to deal with Argus…
we all knew of this trait
so we were careful not
to make any sudden
or threatening moves
around Argus…
of course, our idea of threatening
and Argus’ idea of threatening
were often open for interpretation,
as the following
will demonstrate…

we were a bunch
of grubby bachelors
with very little money…
so the big house we occupied
was devoid of furniture…
we also lacked the benefit
of a television…
Kelly borrowed a small
black and white set
from the guy next door
to have something
for all of us to watch…

one Saturday afternoon
about ten of we fellow mutants
were lying lazily
on the carpeted floor
in the old parlor of the house…
some sweaty sports event on the tube…
the little TV perched on the mantel…

the owner of the set showed up…
as luck would have it,
his set had blown up
and he was sorry,
but he needed his little set back
to watch something
he and his girlfriend
wanted to see…

we all groaned
all of us mildly irritated
at the turn of events,
but it was his set…
and he did say he was sorry…
so Kelly told him
to go ahead and take it…
one of the guys on the floor
unplugged it from the wall…
while unthinking our neighbor,
quickly stepped over Kelly
to grab his TV…

oops!…
the proverbial ‘big mistake’…
a large, silent blur
suddenly shot past
those of us on the floor…

it seems
our old friend Argus
had been lying quietly
in the next room
half snoozing…
he always seemed to keep
one eye open,
as he had this time,
when he saw the figure
of our unlucky neighbor
moving quickly,
standing tall over the prone…
[and in the dog’s opinion]
defenseless Kelly…

before he could
pick the set up
Argus bellowed one
ferocious bark
and bit down on the
guy’s right butt cheek…
he whipped his head
back and forth
violently…
our neighbor yelled…
surprised at the quickness
and ferocity of the attack…

his wallet went sailing
across the room…
the pocket and seat
of his pants were removed…
they flew in the other direction…
the seat of his jockey shorts
went with it…

Kelly sat up and grabbed
Argus’ collar, calling his name,
and pulled him away…
but not before he left
the guy’s bare butt bleeding
from a set of canine teeth marks…

we all sat numbed
and amazed by Argus’ defense…
our neighbor, tv in hand,
swung around with his back
to the wall and stared wide-eyed
at his glaring attacker…
Kelly quickly pulled the
big dog from the room
and put him in the
fenced backyard…
making his apologies
as he went…

the man’s voice wavered
as he said, ‘sure, okay,
guess I wasn’t thinking’…
Kelly was very apologetic,
saying he’d pay for
replacing his torn pants
and shredded underwear…
the guy numbly repeated,
‘sure, okay, guess I wasn’t thinking’…
as he grabbed the television
and quickly made his escape…
stumbling out through
the front door on rubbery legs…

there was a momentary quiet
as Kelley returned to the room…
he stopped in the doorway…
shaking his head…
I said, ‘I don’t think he’ll
be back here anytime soon!’
and we all broke up…
laughing hysterically…
remembering the look on his face…

at which point Argus,
having escaped the backyard,
came bounding back into the room…
he muscled past Kelly,
stopping at the front screen door,
and began barking furiously
at his departed target…
which of course just made us all
laugh even more…

this wasn’t the first time
Argus played the protector
and it wasn’t the last…
I’m just glad I was never on
the receiving end of one of his
shows of force!…

Nice doggie!….

It's Still a Pretty Good Day

2008-03-25T22:45:00.004-04:00

Out of bed this mornin’…
after a night of hardly snorin’…
my body is complaining
from the start…

oh man, my arm…
my shoulder…
my back…
my lungs and heart…
my leg…
my hip is throbbing…
my knee
and my aching head…
my neck is stiff…
my eyelids hurt…
and there’s something itchy
in this gawd damn shirt…

I think I’m imploding…
or that’s just the farts…
the growing explosions
are taxing my heart…
I’m creaky…
I’m popping…
there is no way of stopping
hell, I think I’m caving in…

my eyelids are baggy…
my ass is saggy…
I can’t see my feet anymore…
something down there
covered in hair
has grown big
and fat there
between us…
It’s gotten so big
It’s buried my rig…
damn,
I can hardly find
my penis…

my vision is going…
my hearing too…
something smelly is
alive in my shoes…
I’m getting all wrinkled
my hair is thinning
and gray…

but you know what
they say…
I’m still above ground…
so it’s still a pretty
good day…

R. C. Arquette
5/6/05

"So ,You Want to be a Writer?"...

2008-03-13T17:54:00.015-04:00

When I first started to write, some 43 years ago, I was full of questions; how do you write, what do you write about, how do you arrange the writing, etc. I found more than enough answers and finally weeded through them all to come up with a satisfactory grasp of the practice of writing. I found that after I'd worked at it for a while and found a comfortable way to apply words to the page, people were soon asking me these very same questions. I tried to come up with creative and thoughtful answers, but it wasn't until I found Charles Bukowski that I found the answer to the biggest question of all; how do I become a writer?

It turns out that writers are more often born than made. They practice their craft, but there has to be something in their DNA that drives them to spend hours sitting, hunched over a keyboard, ignoring the world around them, while transferring the thoughts and images in their heads to the stark blank page before them. Bukowski wrote a response to this perennial question and I've come to rely on it to explain the insanity of writing to those who think they'd like to become writers. I include his poetic answer, in full, as follows:

so you want to be a writer?
by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.

if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

I think this sums up the process rather succinctly. It has become my point of reference for myself as well as those who have looked to me for an answer. Bukowski, no matter what you may think of him as a poet or a man, has shot right to the heart of what it takes to write. When I go through dry spells, when the muse has taken a vacation somewhere far away, I'll pull out this poem and read it yet again. Magically it seems to focus me, reminding me of what it is I truly love to do...write. I share it with you in hopes it can have the same sort of effect.

Your Faithful Reporter: RCat
03-13-08

Psychedelics in Memoriam

2008-03-08T17:58:00.003-05:00


At first you need an excuse...

  You say
      You're looking for yourself,
        or someone who looks like you
      but is so much cooler than you..
    or god, or euphoria...
  Yes, a mystic search for truth,
 the Maharishi Owsley...The grand guru
 Mr. Leary and Kerouac and Ginsberg...
  and cosmic love and total
   understanding...
    but your mind is so small
     and wrinkled
       and closed
        surely you 
         will never be enlightened...
         not even enough to find
         your ass
        with both hands
      and a flashlight...

   So here...
  take this freakin' tiny ass-pill...
 expand your suburban consciousness
and unite with the Day-Glo cosmos
finding true harmony
 and her sister melody
   and with their mother nature
     and the slowly spinning
       slowly flushing
         oneness of the
          universe 
         go forth and trip your
       damn brains out...

    Six years I colorfully crawled
  and stumbled and ached while waiting
for that glorious day...
 that spiritual pinnacle
  in the life of the acid eater
  when all would be explained...
 all would be love...
incense and flowers
 free love...

   Bullshit..
     Sweating vibratory stinky paranoia 
   was the end result...
Six lost and blurry neon years...
through mescaline and acid hallucination
mushrooms, stp, and mda...
glassy dilated eyes wide and staring...
 spinning from one dazed adventure
  into another...
   Some of the most exquisite beauty...
     others of nightmarish morbidity...
       Yet in the end, for what?...
      Understanding I would have gained
    without all the buzzed out insanity
  by simply growing up...

  Time moves on...
   I enjoyed it lost in Wonderland
     with Peter and the Lost Boys
      for awhile, a great escape...
        but I had to come down...
         to come home...
       hopefully as sane as I'd left...
      For my mind is much to vivid
    on it's own
  for the surreal world
 of psychedelics

I encourage no one...
but to each his own


        R. C. Arquette
                    5/12/71

Paper Ladies

2008-03-08T17:36:00.006-05:00





A dollar a dream
magazine
fantasy goddess comes smiling...
 her slick shiny tan
  airbrushed in...
   a true redhead,
   blonde or brunette
  My fine folded beauty,
 staples in her stomach...

She's seductive...
a soft smooth lady
hidden in the pages...
waiting patiently
for shaking fingers
 to come walking...

    Wild sensations
      and lusty conversations
       with the foxiest women
       all laughing...
      dancing...
     bouncing and posing...

   And for me
  once a month
they come gliding
across the counter
at the newstand
into eager hands...
Such lovely flesh
I'll never touch...
breasts like these
I'll never see...
 alas...

  So please sir,
   take my money
    and hear my plea...
    and give me
    a dollar
    a dream
    magazine
   and I and the ladies
  will be on
 our way...

Poetry Snobs Need a Hobby

2008-03-02T17:01:00.003-05:00

Oh, hi there... excuse me if I seem a bit miffed... or peeved... ticked off, whatever you'd like to call it, but I'm going to make a big mistake here.

"Pray tell? What mistake is that Mr. Cat?" Well it's this one; I have again been drawn into the never ending banter about poetic form. I try and avoid this discussion like most people avoid talking about politics or religion (two definite no win subjects), but somehow I always end up having to give someone an accounting of what "I think" about the subject...as if I was the grand exalted sultan of the written word; I ain't!!

With that said, I will now give, hopefully (ha!) for the last time, RCat's thoughts on what constitutes poetry; for this I humbly apologize in advance Now Bare with me...this may not be all that funny, but it is about as close to real thought as I can get and that alone should strike you as very funny indeed.

Imagine this: Lace cuffed dandies sniffing snuff and smelling of lavender water and rose hips.

This is a classical caricature of “pantywaist poets of yore” that adhered to a tradition of rhyme and imposed form. Today this type of poet seems to be the disdain of anyone who fancies them self a poet of the new millennium. A sad view in my estimation, for there is a great deal to be gained from form and discipline.

Ah yes, we all have heard the contemporary argument that this “old style” is all so droll and antiquated: “man stifles without growth and growth cannot be achieved without throwing off the tenants of form and discipline.” Therefore, anything that can be translated into a visual medium for the purpose of self expression is a legitimate candidate for inclusion as poetry; this is what a great deal of people would have us believe, but please, lets hope not.

It is indeed fortunate that we live in an era that allows readers and writers to chose their own “poetic poison.” We do practice this choice, but I am afraid it is not without a continual pounding by a rather vocal group of the self-absorbed. Even in today’s plethora of “free verse” poetic forms, there is a need for discipline and thought. Yet, if the current offerings being extolled as the “best of contemporary poetry” are weighed on merit and not just on the parroted adulation afforded them by an often unthinking and lemming like group of poetic wannabes, it is time these same people did a bit of homework.

Using painting as a well worn and often used metaphor, Picasso did not arrive full-blown with his acclaimed abstract masterpieces without knowing how to draw or to paint in the classical tradition. He knew how to think, how to arrange the basic precepts of his craft far before he ever started manipulating them to demonstrate his own unique style. If the poetic offerings of today were done with the same attention to detail, there would be no argument about “what is poetry.” There would be no attacks on “rhyme” or “antiquated style,” only the mutual respect for the medium.

I heard one of the members of a rock group called Duran Duran in an interview say, “Oh I’m so damned tired of hearing about the Beatles and how our sound is much like their sound. Forget them, they’re history, lets get on with tomorrow!” I think I can understand the mans angst about being compared with something that came before, but to deny the existence of what has come before or what impact it has had on them is tantamount to a lie.

Poetry is much the same to me. I feel that no matter how avant-gard a poet chooses to write, they still have a responsibility to pay tribute to those who came before them. The only true way for a poet to do this is to reflect what they have learned from these past poets in their own writings. It may well be in the future that the poets of the day will be doing the same thing with what they have learned from the poets of today.

Well, there it is, I've thrown myself into the shark tank, I'm bleeding profusely, and I sense a feeding frenzy in the making. Guess I'll go pour a couple a' fingers a' Cuervo and wait for the assault...nothing like a little self medication to anesthetize the ol' Cat before he gets a thorough chewing. Cheers! – Please, be quick, but gentle.

Your faithful reporter - RCat

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

2008-02-21T17:08:00.002-05:00

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

2008-02-12T22:13:00.006-05:00


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

Head Games

2008-02-11T18:08:00.012-05:00

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

2008-02-11T16:44:00.002-05:00

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

2008-02-05T18:57:00.001-05:00

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

2008-02-04T18:18:00.000-05:00

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

2008-02-02T20:49:00.000-05:00

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

In Praise of Bar-B-Que

2008-01-21T19:48:00.000-05:00


It’s summer…

another
4th of July
has slipped past…

fireworks, 
boat races, 
the girls
in swimsuits,
the families
on the beach,
everywhere
the ‘tomato red’
sunburns,
and lots
and lots
of food and drink…

where I live…
here in
the south land…
that always
means a lot
of mouth
watering
bar-b-q…

sticky, yummy,
stomach filling,
heart stopping
bar-b-q…
prepared by the 
grill full,
the rack and pit,
and truckload…

after
my 57 years
in the moss draped
south…
it’s still damn good…

which causes
me to wonder…
what is this
bar-b-q lust
that runs hot
through the veins
of we southern
born sons
and daughters?

were
we all weaned
on Louisiana Hot sauce
and Tabasco?..

as infants…
was red pepper
dusted over our 
cradles and cribs
by dark skinned
fairies smelling
of oak smoke
and molasses?…

did the fat round
shapes of those
tasty pink
porkers…
all muddy
and smelly
from the wallow
behind the barn..
      a seemingly
      repulsive image…
did it all trigger
a primitive
carnivores
response?..
causing saliva
to flow
and lips to 
smack with 
pleasured 
anticipation?…

it did indeed…
with smiles
all around…
big white toothed,
sticky red smiles
that reflected
the joy of a full belly
and the sting
of pepper sauce
clinging
to tender lips…

yet,
I dare say,
no one will
ever have the
real answer
to ‘why’…
a timeless and
unanswerable
‘wondering’
that just ‘is’…
it’s in our veins…
 
suffice to say:
we love our
bar-b-q…
we need our 
bar-b-q…
it is
life sustaining…
like the food
of the gods…
hot,
sweet,
tangy,
bar-b-q…

although Mr. Webster
has the word
written as
‘Barbecue’…

Bar-B-Q
is the accepted
and official
spelling…

if there is doubt
check the spelling
on any
and all signs
on the highways
and back roads
below the
familiar demarcation
of the Mason-Dixon line…

those
mom and pop stands…
with their boiled peanuts, 
collard and turnip greens,
and fresh bar-b-cue…
they want those folks
in the shiny Buicks
and Pontiacs
to see them as they
come cruising
the highway 
at 65 MPH…

the signs
are large, colorful,
and often crude
in execution…
but
if that shouldn’t
happen to stop them…
the maddening 
aroma of oak smoke,
roasting pork,
and pop’s homemade
bar-b-cue sauce
sure enough will…

each new stand
with a secret
family recipe
handed down from
grandfather
to father
and father
to son…
a magical 
concoction
that cannot be
bought, stolen,
or torn from the lips 
of dying old men…
steeped in family
tradition and pride…
let no man dare
try to pry such
a masterful blend
from the guardians
of the sauce…

I must add…
I pity
the big pink pig
that evolves above
his porcine kin…
learns to speak
the human tongue…
when one day he
stands upright
on pudgy hind legs…
proudly strolling
into a southern town…
in a pressed dapper suit
and tall top hat…
only to woefully
find himself
the tasty object 
of the evening meal…

for I’m afraid
there is no pig
that can ever…
or will ever…
talk himself out
of a tangy hot
bar-b-q sauce…

oh no…
no way…
no how…

R. C. Arquette  9/4/07

Heat Lightning

2008-01-12T09:22:00.000-05:00


Spanish moss
hanging still
in the branches
of the big Oak trees…

overhead
a big full Moon
keeps peeking
from between
long dark drifting clouds…

no breeze
to rattle the palmettos…
no breeze
to stir the thick warm air…
no breeze
to push the cotton drapes…
no damn breeze at all…

woke up
from a restless sleep
all wet and sticking
to Egyptian cotton sheets…
elbows on the windowsill
staring through heavy eyes
into the dark of night…

in the distant sky
a spidery dance illuminates
the clouds in white and gray…
flashes with no thunder
no sound to get in the way…
shooting out 
through humid air
to remind you summer’s here…

as if we needed reminding…
the sweat does that very well…
noting in frustration
there is no breeze
to rattle the palmettos…
no breeze
to stir the thick warm air…
no breeze
to push the cotton drapes…
no damn breeze at all…

so I watch the show
remaining hopeful 
while dozing in a chair…
waiting by the open window
for a breath…
a movement…
of some cool inviting air…

while all I seem to get
is more
heat lightning…

                         R.C. Arquette
                                    7/29/06

A Life Defined in Black & White

2007-12-05T23:04:00.000-05:00

I was asked
for the thousandth time,
like we’ve all been asked
at one time or another,
‘if you could be someone,
other than yourself,
who would you be?’
I asked, ‘living or dead?’
living was the reply
I thought…
took some time…
remembered the 999 other times
I was asked…
couldn’t remember what I’d said
but this time
a name came to mind
popping into my head
like a shadow from the fog
‘Johnny Donnels,’ I answered
‘who?’
my credulous friend frowned,
‘an artist-photographer
I knew in New Orleans’
‘oh,’ was the muted affirmation…

later I had to grin…
after all these years
why not Ghandi,
Mother Teresa,
or someone of major
social significance?…
hell, why not Hugh Hefner
or Sean Connery?…
just what possessed me
to think of John?…

I wondered
how old would he be today?
I was 17 and 18 in the summers
of 1967 and 1968…
both long hot Louisiana summers…
summers that I stayed with my dad
in the landmark Skyscraper Building
in a large single room with a bath
on the third floor
overlooking Rue Royale…
the mortar fell from between
the red brick unpainted walls,
which shook loose
with the passing
of each city bus…
I was attending
McCready School of Art
in the French Quarter
learning his technique
for charcoal, chalk,
and acrylic paintings…
the French Quarter
was an eye opener for a teen
from a small Florida town…

I’d seen Johnny once since then
when my wife and I
had vacationed
in the Vieux Carre’…
it was in the late 70’s, if I recall,
I wanted to show her a place
that I had fallen
helplessly in love with…

we went by the gallery
at 634 St. Peters…
Starving Artists Gallery;
I always loved that…
in the Skyscraper Building
next to Maggie Hartnet’s gallery…

Maggie was one of those artists
who painted those big eyed kids
that were the thing at the time….

John had been there
In the same gallery
since when…1963?
delightfully,
he was still there
upstairs, in his studio…
I’d guess John never really needs
to wander very far…

a surprise awaited…
black and white photos
of the Quarter
filled the walls of the gallery
upstairs prints were filed in bins
waiting
to join the others in the gallery
downstairs…
they had replaced
the vibrant colors of his earlier life…
paintings in acrylics
I’d first found fascinating…
pieces with street scenes
boats, buildings,
trees against sky,
shapes shouting
for the eye’s attention
the pieces Vincent Price bought
for his Sears print collection
[met Mr. Price at the gallery; a thrill]
and the pieces carried home by visitors
to occupy a place
over the family sofa
or a dining room sideboard…

the photos
were a welcome surprise…
I love the contrast of black and white
to me more revealing of life than color
I was drawn in by the familiar images
of Jackson Square, the river,
Jax brewery,
the French Market,
Pirate’s Alley…

John signed
a copy of his book for us
something I go through on occasion
to conjure up spirits of the French Quarter
a delicious sensory overload
that lies at that particular bend in the river…
and John captures wonderfully
in his unique vision
of this historical old Queen…

I imagine there is a bit of gray
through the wavy hair on John’s head
but I’d bet the smile is still there
and that gentle New Orleans
hospitality to ‘come on up’
greets you whether
you’ve known John a lifetime
or met him for the first time…

that’s why Johnny came to mind…
when you put his cheerful warmth
his creativity and imagination
together with an abundance
of friends and followers
from around the world…
add the laid back context
of the Vieux Carre
and The Big Easy;
a backdrop of history, art,
and decadence…
toss in a lifestyle that has allowed
for travel, family,
and a well rounded career…
one that has garnered him a respect
among critics, fans, and fellow artists…
giving him the presence for being
another valued page in the colorful
history of the French Quarter…
who else could a person want to be?

having said all that…
I guess it’s easy to understand
my answer to the question…
a name came to mind
popping into my head
like a shadow from the fog
‘Johnny Donnels,’ I answered
‘who?’ my credulous friend frowned,
‘an artist-photographer
I met in New Orleans’
‘oh,’ was the muted affirmation…

oh indeed!

someday
when they decide to erect
a statue to the ‘goodwill ambassador’
of the Vieux Carre…
right there,
next to Jackson and his stead,
on old Jackson Square…
will stand the smiling countenance
of one Johnny Donnels…

here’s to you John!…

R. C. Arquette
8/6/03

In My Library of Fears

2007-12-04T18:41:00.000-05:00

Shelves stretch forever
in my library of fears
Rows of organized visions
Held in the bookends of my ears
Haunting thoughts of make-believe
Infectious plays spawned to deceive
A teetering ride
On the black edge of reality

I float naked in twilight
through a mock desertscape
above a stainless steel highway
Silently racing, unable to escape
Ahead the roadway is twisted razor teeth
I awaiting it's painful shredding of my feet
To awaken sweat soaked
Sticking fly-paper tight to the sheets

A Wizard of Oz tornado
Spinning in sickening slow motion
Eats up the ground as it rumbles my way
While I scramble to avoid the destruction
From my ditch shelter I watch bodies rain
The impact craters blossom in crimson stain
As the flattened figures
Stare skyward in lost expressions of pain

Intense light cuts the darkness
As a figure steps through a small door
and the vast length and height of the hangar
Is revealed from ceiling to floor
The figure yells, "Catch!" as it tosses a pin
Which grows larger with each approaching spin
Until it knocks me down
In mind-blowing special FX slow motion

In the darkening fog
Between huge southern oaks
The Spanish Moss hangs down
Unmoving, at the buckboard's approach
I ride, chased from mansion to mansion,
from room to room, filled with apprehension,
A damp, gray, dead-man's shroud
Suddenly engulfs me; a frightening vision

Shelves filled with bad dreams
In my library of fears
Cataloged rows of visions
Held prisoner between my own ears
Haunting thoughts of spirits and infinity
With a roller-coaster drop through fantasy
The constant teetering ride
On the thin black edge of my reality

R. C. Arquette
4/17/86

Geometry of the Living

2007-12-03T17:52:00.000-05:00

If birth is point A
And death is point B
The lifeline between must be me
This line stretches out in one direction
Broken on occasion by an intersection
To a destination yet unseen

I’ve tried manipulation
And applied creative articulation
To what is seemingly fixed and mundane
An attempt to alter design by an active brain
Yet lifelines struggle to remain the same
In spite of my interpretation

I don’t care for vertical
It all seems so upright and imperial
Because vertical implies a lofty need
For me lofty is just another nosebleed
And therefore defined non-essential
Found to be inconsequential

I’m not much for horizontal
It’s all too lifelike and elemental
Common position for sleep, sex and death
Only difference being a variance of breath
And in the end all too damn incidental
A wise mans image of contemporary hell

It’s these angles that I’m drawn to
Angles that define my world anew
On desktops, roadmaps, and daydreams
In art work, playgrounds, and street scenes
It’s tranquility and peace they’re giving
The angles in the geometry of the living

To a destination still yet unseen
Broken on occasion by an intersection
The lifeline stretches out in one direction
This angle filled line must be me
Since my birth is point A
And death is point B

R. C. Arquette
9/20/00

A Boys Best Friend is his Big Screen

2007-11-10T22:19:00.000-05:00

Who is it that goes for help
when little Timmy
has fallen down
the well?…
why it’s Timmy’s
best friend Phillips…
the 42” HDTV!…
‘good boy Phillips,’
says Timmy…
‘go bring help big fellah!’

who is it that does tricks
on the lawn for little Johnny?…
fetch a stick…
catch a Frisbee…
it’s Toshiba…
the plasma big screen…
‘good boy Toshiba!’
grins Johnny…
‘go get it boy, go get it!’

who is it that is there
to wake your little bobby boy
in the morning…
and to keep him up
late into the night?…
why it’s that family pet…
the one you now regret…
that has taken over
your boys very soul…
that abomination
you call a television set…

you reflect in horror
at all those hours
they spend
in it’s glowing embrace
showing it love
and their complete attention…
the watchers watching…
the 2600 reruns of Star Trek…
the 1865 reruns of Stargate…
the hours of Sliders,
FarScape and
Everyone Loves Raymond…
Infomercials and Springer…
24 hours a day
it comes their way…
their pet is always there ready…

the world spins round…
time marches on
as they sit dazed…
ignoring school work…
side stepping chores…
disregarding personal hygine…
missing meals…
to live in the dark…
Timmy is huddled inside…
sharing a childhood
with a boys best friend…
his Big-Screen buddy…
his TV…

afraid of the sun
and the heat…
afraid of the dirt
and the bugs…
afraid of the animals
and plants…
the spiders and snakes…
repulsed by the thought
of the great outdoors…
nature gives him
the creeps…

a perfect excuse
to spend time…
all their time…
destroying their mind…
drawn like
a moth to a flame…
staring mouth agape…
drool hanging from
a little boys chin…
at commercials, videos,
sit-coms and movies…
absorbed in their pets
as their bodies and minds
wither with atrophy
and apathy…

it’s no longer Lassie
that sits by a boys side…

who is it that will go for help
when little Timmy
has fallen down
the well?…
why it’s Phillips…
the 42” HDTV!…

you bet…

©R. C. Arquette
5/11/05

Bottles Without Doors

2007-11-09T19:38:00.001-05:00

Riding away
from another
perfectly dark day…
fleeing once again
across the borders…
out from the secure
into a strange land
where all the other
pale riders are
escaping memory…
in search of Jose
and his agave…

into the canyons…
across the mesas…
in the shadows…
in the corners…
with the oily amber
in my glass
reflecting light
on the walls and
on the ceiling…
shimmering light
that will numb souls…
will distort perception…

will take away pain…
delivering me
into a momentary place
a calming space
where I never have
anything to lose
nothing to gain…
and never will…
the sickness passes…
I wake again…
finding
I’m out of control…

riding away
from another
perfectly dark day…

R. C. Arquette
12/26/05

Delerium Golf

2007-11-07T16:27:00.000-05:00

It was a wonderful warm
and sticky morn
in the parking lot
someone blew their horn
It was Rocky Raccoon,
having done his time
for the “rival shooting,”
fresh from the pen
he’d come to play
with yours truly,
plus Kinison,
Silverstein, and Lennon…
We fairway nuts
were here to shoot golfs!

It was tee time
at a quarter past ten
when at last
we five deranged friends
gathered at the
Snooty Palms clubhouse
with tequila,
clubs, and balls
Rocky insists on
driving the cart
his stubby cigar
befouling us all…
And we’re off
in search of elusive golfs!

Alive with
a misguided zen
it’s a déjà vu
of where and when
five mammals hanging
from a Cushman
arrive chattering and crazy
on number one tee
Kinison’s “Four!” scares
the foursome ahead
they run howling
into the River Birch trees…
Look out, here come
the loonies of golfs!

Lennon announces
he’s big wide hunter
shooting golfs with
bent pool cue putter
While Uncle Shelby
and I keep irate Rocky
from mugging the ratty
Caddyshack gopher
Kinison beaned some
nun up ahead
in a foursome
and is screaming out
a whacky
settlement offer…
And the inferior five
still haven’t seen golfs!

Of course the police finally came
put an end to our game
and carted us off to jail
But Lennon had cash
and he paid in a flash
so we all were released on bail
We ended the day
in the usual way
by downing pint after pint at McGills
Kinison took the lead
in a voice that made ears bleed
and we all sang “Hey Bungalow Bill”

the damn end –

© R.C. Arquette
6/16/00

Turned to Glass

2007-11-05T23:55:00.003-05:00


At one time
he was substantial…
      he had movement,
      weight, and shape…
he was an obvious presence…
      all polished,
      shiny, and new…
his colors were bright,
and said to be alluring…
      he had that dazzle,
      that jewel like sparkle,
a source of constant comment…
      a friend,
      a loved one,
      a confidant…
someone to make you laugh…
someone to share your dreams…
someone who cared…
      a man of depth
      and inner meaning…
      a jester, a romantic,
a vagabond poet on a life quest…
      more than a friend…
      less than eternal…

he was that person
      you used to know…
      you wonder what became of him…
      now you don’t see him anymore…

drained of what he was…
      he seems invisible…
      but he’s not gone…
just outside the scope of vision
where he stands alone…
transparent and fragile…
       a quiet man…
       lost in solitary thoughts
       as if turned to glass…

© 2004 - R. C. Arquette

Between the Lines

2007-10-27T23:53:00.002-04:00

Who am I…

I am content…
When I finally die, I want Hugh Hefner’s life
to pass before my tired eyes

I am courageous…
Oh, I have no real fear of dying,
but pain sure can scare the hell out of me

I am funny…
Folks say I’m very witty
I say I’m only half way there; a half-wit

I am compassionate…
Women: blind, lame, deaf, or indifferent,
eighteen to eighty, I want them all

I am sober…
If there is no cold Guinness in the afterlife
then I’m damn well refusing to die

I am restrained…
If I wasn’t supposed to fondle myself regularly,
why are my arms this length?

I am disciplined…
The genie calling from the bottle is amber
and answers to the name tequila

I am focused…
I’m the fool who jumps into a pool of tits
and comes up sucking my thumb

I am knowledgeable…
Nothing is what it appears to be in this world;
except maybe mucus

I am civilized…
So many wonderful wanton women,
but so damned little time left to play

I am frugal…
If it cost just a dollar to go around the world
I couldn’t get around the block

I am observant…
There’s nothing more beautiful
than fine hairs on a girls breast in sunlight

I am sympathetic…
Ignorant and unthinking people
should be run through a chipper for mulch

I am patient…
Children should neither be seen nor heard
they should be barbecued

I am honest…
As a last resort, I’m the guy for you
but don’t let me near your daughters

I am structured…
My life is a series of irritating unplanned events
followed by a long nap

I am me…

© R. C. Arquette
11/13/02