Geometry of the Living

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 AAnd death is point B

The Death of Religion

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

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…

Frogtown Serenade

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

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

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