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

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

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…

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!….

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

"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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

life is good…

R. C. Arquette
4/10/07

Clockwork Cacophony

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

Its what you make it…

                                                                R. C. Arquette
                                                                12/1/02

No comments:

Head Games

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bukowski's Ghost: Hank Comes 'Round Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

g’night Hank…

R. C. Arquette 2/11/05

Zombies on the Catwalik

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

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

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

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

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

Brave Passage Through a Literary Landscape

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

down narrow gray carpeted valleys
of climate controlled provinces

(between Whitman, Poe, and Plath)

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

on either side stretching high
off into the hazy distant horizon

(past King, Koontz, and Barker)

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

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

(here Beatles, Steamships, and Cats)

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

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

(pages of Giger, Klimt, and Van Gogh)

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

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

(where Freud, Camus, and Capote await)


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

noting the alphabetical arrangements
enforced by certain popular decree

(finding cummings, Bronte, and Dickinson)

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

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

(leading Kerouac, Sandburg, and Williams)

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

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

(smiling Ginsburg, Di Palma, and Parker)

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

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

R. C. Arquette
1/19/03

RCat: Award Recipient

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I now pass the torch to these five poetic gents:

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

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

In Praise of Bar-B-Que

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