Thursday, July 3, 2008

Squirrel Fishing with Lefty & Iron Balls McGinty



















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

Saturday, June 28, 2008

The Road to Mudcrutch Farm




















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

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Humankind


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

Saturday, June 21, 2008

A Timeline for our Preoccupation

Photobucket

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

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Blue Lotus



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

Saturday, May 31, 2008

"SEX!!"



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

Monday, May 26, 2008

Smoke























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

Thursday, May 15, 2008

I Learned from the Best



















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


Saturday, May 10, 2008

Family Legends: Earthquake Informal Wear
















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





















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

Monday, April 28, 2008

Poetry 101


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

















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

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Elevator Scenes: Doors with Teeth

















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…

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Thanks, it was Fun while it Lasted






















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


















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!….

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

It's Still a Pretty Good Day









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

Thursday, March 13, 2008

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



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

Saturday, March 8, 2008

Psychedelics in Memoriam




















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

























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...

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Poetry Snobs Need a Hobby



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