tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45549842301136439712024-03-18T23:14:31.503-04:00Heads on FireRick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.comBlogger369125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-43490344951087040222014-08-26T08:28:00.002-04:002014-08-26T08:33:58.255-04:00People Say<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span><br />
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Baudelaire was left-handed. </span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">People also say he drank. As one </span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">who knows, I can tell you, </span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">there's some truth to each of those </span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">claims. But it's complicated, because</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">these two life-long compensatory </span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">behaviors are like evil twins who</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">make their home in his breast;<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> beneath their pink and cozy <br /> firmament, they squirm like <br /> snakes, if snakes were made of<br /> tar and wax; these devils twist <br /> and braid their breakable bodies<br /> together, and snare the ancient <br /> sounds of what poor strands<br /> of his own remain to him, in any <br /> vague but somehow recognizable <br /> shape that evokes memory from <br /> the perforated, also twisting,<br /> black eels that are all that's left <br /> of his once really quite notable brain.<br /> I can tell you that... and no one <br /> else can, because I'm the one <br /> who knows it. But just as he was fond <br /> of saying when he found himself<br /> near, or more likely already long <br /> past, wit's end, he'd intone with <br /> his crooked smile, but which <br /> I'll forego: “Ah, but I digress.” <br />I'll spare you the bloody detail,<br /> the grim lot issued by drink, a chit <br /> redeemable only in Hell, one that <br /> daily finds with freshened vengeance <br /> even its lesser acolytes, men nowhere<br /> near so loyal as Lairey. I can tell you<br /> the secret to his effortless, even <br /> graceful, albeit entirely assumed, <br /> left-handedness, though. The simple<br /> quirk of anatomical fact that's behind<br /> that distinctive look he's got; and further, <br /> has got it doubled, actually, that <br /> universally recognized, one sure <br /> give-away that even in silhouette <br /> or shorn of the context of a mate,<br /> still fairly screams: “left hand.” <br />Well, it's because both of his arms <br /> end in hands whose palms, each <br /> present their respective thumbs <br /> as quite plainly emerging to the <br /> immediate left of the palm's base.<br /> Why, it's the very definition of a <br /> left hand, the classic clinical description, <br /> But, listen, Lairey has two! the same! <br /> one on each side! So, and I suppose <br /> this is the funny part, he could hardly <br /> help but be left-handed, eh? Well, <br /> I shouldn't joke, because actually, it's <br /> far worse where his syndrome<br /> has taken him. It began at birth.<br /> Lairey was a twin, twin grotesquery,<br /> they all said, because, as it happened,<br /> his dominant brother, in the womb, <br /> took most of the limited supply <br /> of toes they'd been issued. Poor<br /> Lairey's two feet, opposites, thank <br /> the Lord, had to get on with but <br /> a single toe, between them.<br /> You'd drink, too, I think. <br /> Plus, already his eldest son has arranged <br /> that once the old bounder's finally <br /> drunk himself clear through to death, <br /> he gets the hands, and that,<br /> free and unencumbered.</span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br />
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</span>Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-29232343003879442312014-08-26T08:25:00.001-04:002014-08-26T08:25:06.850-04:00Grand Landing<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">I don't see why, in general,<br /> big feelings are so important.<br /> And I'm not certain entirely that<br /> they are. But I will allow, in lieu of<br /> countering argument passing<br /> that this is not entirely unexpected. <br /> that this would be introduced. I was<br /> in the mean time hunkered down <span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> in nasty billet, you could say, <br /> waiting for something that would be<br /> wearing its name on its sleeve, that <br /> would allow me to enter into it<br /> with no particular invasion of<br /> its or her bodily integrity, nothing to <br /> call attention to Mr. Slippery Damn Goose<br /> and his private predations, nor their<br /> patented predilections for the particularly <br /> perverse, a collection I'd had a hand in<br /> building. Well, you say, answer me <br /> quickly, You say why am I not <br /> wearing trousers? You're asking me, <br /> that? Is that me to whom you speak, <br /> so free, and by the way. would that be <br /> your simple standard query, fleshed out <br /> and flushed before lunch? Or something <br /> more complex, perhaps, a rule-based<br /> inquiry, say, something in your<br /> maximal rhetorical flourish? Which- <br /> would-that-be? Why, yes, I'm asking you; <br /> do you see anyone else? If you see, <br /> for instance, anyone at all, mucking about <br /> who identifies as one preferring to come <br /> straight to the point, where I'm going, <br /> that is, that point, that singularity of all <br /> singularities and associated sending units,<br /> then just please, send them right along <br /> to me. As per the inconvenient deficit <br /> of any state of wearable trou, the <br /> aforementioned, yes, well, simple fairness <br /> compels me to admit that: strictly speaking, <br /> I don't even have legs, so perhaps then <br /> these thin vanadium cables, in this <br /> sore pinch, must suffice. Yes?</span></span></div>
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Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-32711887669705028362014-06-16T03:51:00.002-04:002014-06-16T03:52:48.378-04:00A Good Mourning .<br />
It's no wonder I write so many <br />
aubades (self-styled), staying <br />
up like I do, till morning and<br />
beyond, two, three, four nights<br />
every week; until I'm weak,<br />
and sick as well, with an exhaustion <br />
not the least bit tired; but just plain <span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> uncut awful; like snorting No-Doz <br /> at 8:00 AM, somewhere along the <br /> dirty corridor, Delaware, say, <br /> tucked up tight beneath an interstate <br /> on the narrow ledge above the crotch <br /> it makes with the crossing roadway; <br /> there's an acid bite you may or <br /> may not recall, to the urine of the <br /> slowly dying, and you aren't ready <br /> to lie down yet (you've still got <br /> standards, hey, old boy?) amidst <br /> the pigeon shit and broken glass, <br /> the discarded empty pints of <br /> vodka, whiskey, rotgut wine, and<br /> limp and crackling underfoot, <br /> the drying condoms, coming from <br /> god knows where. but furthest<br /> beyond weird is the single shoes, <br /> scores of them, abandoned, none <br /> with mates. what the hell?<br /> It looks like a lonely lot, my friend,<br /> and can feel like you're having <br /> your extremities singed away with <br /> a rusting but serviceable <br /> curling iron, and sometimes, <br /> quite naturally, you (like anyone)<br /> can get your eyes plucked out<br /> with a red-hot rod (this to see if<br /> you're paying attention). and all the <br /> while you remain staid, unmoved, <br /> erect; upright, that is, as if you were <br /> fifteen, always fifteen, always on <br /> the money, and your whole life coming, <br /> and coming still more; always keeping <br /> on with it, always more coming, as if<br /> it will keep it up until you're quite <br /> dead, which could come soon.</span><br />
<br />Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-85474845302797720062014-06-16T03:47:00.002-04:002014-06-16T03:48:49.968-04:00Heart<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Heart-<br />...............for James Davis<br /> .<br /> like, and not so much, in-house; <br /> as much much more: the homie, <br /> never so home in his swank abode, <br /> his cush-crazy comfort crib, as when<br /> loosed on the freed land, empty-handed,<br /> beneath a mythic moon. Night moves <br /> turning the ghost-white flora blue, <span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> tucked in hard by a prairie named <br /> Payne's. And don't we know it now, <br /> know just what they meant, and who <br /> they meant it for; it's only all too <br /> well we know, just who got hurt, <br /> and how that went, as well as <br /> who might be saved. And fuck all <br /> and hell no, we ain't forgetting <br /> where and when, nor who<br /> the red deer ran from, spitting<br /> a blood-flecked froth, and breaking <br /> legs of glass, all the night long,<br /> from here to home.</span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">
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</span></span><br />Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-17479691445597597692014-06-10T16:45:00.003-04:002014-06-10T16:45:52.403-04:00Drughounds of the Silver Basking Buddha<br /><br />
the SBB being a small organization, one so demanding<br />
in its designated qualifying talents, that no one member<br />
is likely to even know any other, or if they do, they<br />
little suspect that their everyday boon companion,<br />
<br />
as well, like themselves, is an inveterate bounder<br />
of the heaving main, a spirit quite as discriminating<br />
as they, yet never would neither ever know it<br />
in the other, though they pull quite side by side;<br />
<br />
and the juxtaposed disacquaintance between them<br />
is probably due mostly to this salient accompanying<br />
indisputable fact: the more nuanced the strategy<br />
one employs for getting at the heart of things,<br />
<br />
the more likely it is that that activity will subsume<br />
one's entire attention and mentational faculties,<br />
if to do it well; moreover such missions, those consisting<br />
mainly of paying very close attention are nearly<br />
<br />
always conducted completely in silence, alone,<br />
and utterly without any sort of distraction.<br />
All to say, and what this then means is: it's<br />
not the kind of thing you talk about, anyway,<br />
<br />
things you actually take seriously, would be<br />
willing to die for, say, these life-extending<br />
heirlooms passed down to us, intact and<br />
disguised in the homily of our native tongue.<br />
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<br />Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-50399442118386761952014-05-05T13:22:00.000-04:002014-05-05T13:36:59.599-04:00Just Asking: Can I Be Serious<br />
<br />
for once? Apparently not. I'm far<br />
too set in my ways: locked into<br />
a perspective of perpetual need;<br />
what emerges from deep storage--<br />
<br /><br />
wet and snapping, biting itself on<br />
the page—needs nothing so much<br />
as an answering rhythm, a syncopated<br />
triage to repair the tear left behind
in<br />
<br /><br />
the mind. Well, it's an avocation; at
least<br />
in the short-term, it keeps me writing.<br />
But wouldn't it nice once to write<br />
something of value, that is, of value
to<br />
<br /><br />
at least one other human being,<br />
animal even; I'm not proud; or tired.<br />
But that's not gonna happen.<br />
How could anyone care about<br />
<br /><br />
this extreme self-interest but me?<br />
There's just no way. Actually,<br />
there is one; and its benefits<br />
go far beyond the possibility of<br />
<br /><br />
someone getting value from your poems.<br />
It's finding (and keeping) an actual<br />
girlfriend. There's no more exalted<br />
pursuit than that, anywhere. Plus,<br />
<br /><br />
they always get value from poems<br />
pitched their way, especially<br />
poems written with them in mind.<br />
If they've ever been in love, most
likely,<br />
<br /><br />
that's just how they were snagged.<br />
Poets can rarely resist such, some<br />
would say, cynical use of their<br />
alleged gift; I mean, like making<br />
<br /><br />
a woman fall in love with you by<br />
writing lovely verse. But, I would
argue,<br />
it's such a lovely result—not to
mention,<br />
its being poetry's main purpose since,<br />
<br /><br />
roughly, the beginning of time—<br />
so it seems kind of sacrilegious now<br />
to associate it with something cynical,<br />
to suggest such behavior is selfish, or<br />
<br /><br />
call it manipulative, as some surely
do,<br />
to persuade another person--even one<br />
of exactly those qualities you happen<br />
to find so particularly attractive,<br />
<br /><br />
perhaps even adore--to get that person<br />
to love you, too. But, so what? I'm not<br />
writing poems for those skags, the<br />
kind who find romance disgusting.\<br />
<br /><br />
'm looking for a woman <br />
who can be had for, approximately, <br />
a decent limerick. That's my type<br />
o' gal, exactly; and we'll get on fine.<br />
<br />Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-46319793164802017742014-05-03T14:14:00.000-04:002014-05-03T14:14:44.032-04:00Being Tony Hopkins<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_53651feee86e19d56736356">
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Some days it doesn't even pay<br />
to go downstairs; some days<br />
they're already waiting. For what?<br />
I think, but I don't say anything.<br />
I just go get the ring rig and<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> the hoist. Around sundown, in summer,<br /> it's time to walk the dog, or whatever <br /> you call it, in your branch of the service.<br /> In the metaphysics game, most of us,<br /> haul down the ceremony before <br /> even the holiday. That's just<br /> the Crowfish in me talking. Yah,<br /> you could say I had reservations. <br /> I lived in Detroit; Albany, yes;<br /> of course, that was a mistake. As was<br /> the dancing, at least with the squint <br /> that brung me. So what do you do then. <br /> Call a cab? Call the law? Or just call it <br /> a day? I actually prefer a bull gator who's<br /> got some tits, if you come right <br /> down to it. Ask me, the hard cases are <br /> good for nothing but shoes, whereas <br /> with that nice soft white underbelly <br /> dragging the ground when they walk, <br /> it keeps their tiny minds on business. <br /> There's a scientific name for it. It's <br /> some kind of syndrome, I guess;<br /> not the least bit contagious. The biggest<br /> drawback comes in laying out a suit,<br /> but even a medium sized hand bag, <br /> to get the zipper in straight, you have to<br /> chalk the old biddy head to tail, then <br /> all the way back again. It gets tiresome. <br /> you better believe it; like drawing blood <br /> with a pencil. I can never get a likeness <br /> nor even pull up a vein. Then if <br /> I say anything about it to anyone at all, <br /> they send me straight to steerage<br /> to mop up any remains of the day.<br /> </span></div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-6995954361343463522014-05-03T14:13:00.000-04:002014-05-03T14:13:53.823-04:00I Swarmed The River<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
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All the big carp, like manatees with attitude,<br />
moved right over. I reached to Lake Superior<br />
and over to Champlain, and settled into <br />
the grey woods of winter there. I watched<br />
the trickle of glacial melt drip until spring<span class="text_exposed_hide">.</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> When I loosed myself on the land,<br /> my lack of age, my youth, the years<br /> to come, ran before me like trembling mice, <br /> waiting, hesitating to bury themselves,<br /> each after my eventualities, which I prefer <br /> to play close, if not hold dear. Once, <br /> the land stretched out from between <br /> my thighs and into the middle-distance, <br /> which could hear me coming, and <br /> laid before me like a new concubine, <br /> trembling at the potency I reserved<br /> for my everyday charisma, but that's<br /> not to share. I managed to ignore her<br /> allure while I sure could have used it.<br /> When finally it was too late, and surely, <br /> far too late, and thus, never coming <br /> again; then, and only then, did I <br /> swarm the river, as before.</span></div>
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Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-89536883375004057302014-05-03T14:11:00.000-04:002014-05-03T14:11:47.072-04:00I Knew The Great Ones<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
<br />
before they emerged from<br />
their thorny beds, and stuck<br />
themselves to my trousers<br />
like burdocks, as if no life were<br />
ever, nor would be, had elsewhere<span class="text_exposed_hide">.</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Who the fuck am I, to rate<br /> these clowns' accompaniment? <br /> Can I resubmit? Can I walk <br /> from these settled claims still <br /> engaged in and indefatigably <br /> employed at this serious business <br /> of pulling off my pants? <br /> Ma'am, please understand,<br /> I come bearing philosophy,<br /> my signature work sings of<br /> what we didn't, as well as of<br /> what we did. Your name is pitched<br /> there, beside the fall of our earnest <br /> and earliest intention, writ indelibly <br /> in bold italic, beside mine, held close <br /> and tucked into this private, un-<br /> discovered hand; this <br /> cursive rune.</span></div>
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Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-31031181099108311452014-05-03T14:10:00.000-04:002014-05-03T14:10:55.569-04:00I Can't Tell When It's Too Late<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
<br />
for ordinary measures, or even<br />
when my resources are entirely <br />
expended, as in exhausted and<br />
thinnish, as if lacking a certain<br />
vitality, a je ne se quois, which<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> cannot be uploaded from anywhere<br /> your teeth in their dark sockets<br /> vibrate to the tune of mind-tearing<br /> chemicals, bearing tablets of stone,<br /> on which is writ where the planet<br /> is headed; will it have a fate, <br /> to burn and twist and starve<br /> in consequence of heedless acts<br /> of pulchritude, foisted before<br /> our footfall and already trod <br /> deep into our past? Or, will it <br /> merely whiff off into thin air like <br /> weightless cosmic pollen needing <br /> a Higgs field to substantiate not<br /> its existence, but its mass, what<br /> small resistance we put before<br /> our gods of spite, plunging to <br /> our elbows in the given<br /> wounds, those smiling apertures <br /> we sustain in the ready<br /> performance of our duties. </span></div>
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Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-30074658077496177962014-05-03T14:02:00.008-04:002014-05-03T14:03:03.490-04:00The New Poem<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
<br />It is in the interest of truth in advertising,<br /> and to promote a world where you CAN<br /> tell a book by its cover that this title<br /> has been selected.<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /><br /> I think it's safe to say the world will not <br /> be effected in any way by my “poems,”<br />and that right there saves me from having to<br /> wind through the list: “won't be changed by...”<br /><br />“won't even notice...”, “doesn't and won't ever<br /> give the faintest shit...” and the rest. <br /> Nor will it, nor should it, bring me fame <br /> or fortune, or anything else. Nor is it for you;<br /><br /> regardless how many times I push it on you.<br /> It's hard to explain; it's not exactly a <br /> dysfunctional, exploitive relationship <br /> we have, you and I, but, well, it's like<br /><br /> that tree in the forest...and no one around <br /> to hear, so does it make a sound when it falls?. <br /> I mean, we are just like that with my poems. <br /> I don't have to spell it out.<br /><br /> And that's all I'm going to say about it.</span></div>
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Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-79658688868266686542014-05-03T13:58:00.008-04:002014-05-03T13:59:09.520-04:00Aubade<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_5365206cc648c4b72129138">
<br /> I swore you'd never see such pretension<br /> from me. I must be getting desperate. <br /> In any case, you will recall that an 'aubade' <br /> is a poem written in the morning, or possibly <br /> written 'about morning,' we'd got that far...<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /><br /> but then, maybe, it was 'mourning,' actually, <br /> like written while grieving, or possibly <br /> written about the experience of grieving, <br /> about which I can tell you next to nothing.<br /><br /> When my mom died, I got a good poem, <br /> but that's pretty much it. I didn't get <br /> any feeling that seemed in any other way<br /> right. I found myself seeking something <br /> that would inform me what was gone, or<br /><br /> at least tell me what loss really is. And<br /> even then, and by 'then' I mean: with only <br /> the poem's alleged quality to console me, <br /> even in that, I was completely alone.<br /><br /> I'd written it for my dad, but he didn't 'get it,' not<br /> until he'd read it a couple hundred times, and <br /> by then it was a year or two later. Now, though, <br /> nearly every time we talk, he tells me what <br /> a stunning poem it was, that one I wrote the day<br /><br /> of Mom's memorial service to read there, and did<br /> (it isn't quite that good, perhaps, but he's biased, <br /> and doubly, although on the other hand, he was <br /> an English major.). I do appreciate a lot what<br /><br /> he's getting from it--that's what I'd wanted, too,<br /> part of it, anyway--it's just that, retrospectively,<br /> it's not working for me for what I was hoping for <br /> most, which is in no way abstract, as if it could<br /> apply to any other moment or circumstance. I mean,<br /><br /> it can't do for me now what it was supposed to<br /> do then; which was, tell me something about <br /> the pang of grief, that most solitary endeavor; <br /> of all experience, surely, the most personal and<br /><br /> closest to home; neither to be shared nor <br /> turned away, but to bring me surcease of it, <br /> this pain, the very one I couldn't muster, <br /> I'd been hoping to somehow reverse engineer it, <br /> to tell me I was alive.<br /> </span></div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-82256174617385786642014-05-03T13:20:00.003-04:002014-05-03T13:20:41.139-04:00Turnips and Toast<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_5365214892a6f9b05017639">
<br />again. Lord, how I miss La Moulin Rouge.<br /> Pipettes of the free market's finest <br /> every morning for breakfast. By noon,<br /> I was a man to be reckoned on, and with. And <br /> by evening, by god, fit again to be tied <span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> to the closest mast still standing; if none <br /> could be had, then, just rolled from the curb.<br /> With any luck, I'd be feted with, and fit for, <br /> the Christ's living dancing bones. Admittedly,<br /> if you want to get technical about it, those<br /> had long been lost, right along with the sterling <br /> beaches of the Tzarina's Crimea, but don't <br /> tell these fools, else their stinking assembly will <br /> send me home without my potato.<br /> .</span></div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-29959197330641344142014-05-03T13:14:00.004-04:002014-05-05T13:23:19.312-04:00I Am Immortal<br /><br />
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I Am Immortal<br /> .................. for Paul Ryan<br /> .<br /> I might as well admit it. Nobody<br /> gets out of here without the<br /> rest of us. Which means we're<br /> looking at a long goddamn haul. <span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> On a more personal note, <br /> that means in plain English: <br /> we'll be dragging you, friend, <br /> and paying the freight for it,<br /> all the way. To keep accounts <br /> current, as an update to the <br /> cost/benefit analysis ongoing, <br /> I should probably say: Paul, <br /> I don't have the least problem with<br /> that, uh, recent thing, the problem<br />“we” have in “our” inner cities, <br /> you know, with those men, and <br /> their “culture;” sheeit, man...<br /> their lack of a deep and<br /> meaningful involvement <br /> with, you know, like, “work”... <br />it nearly equals my own. Even yours,<br /> for that matter. But, hey, my brutha,<br /> that is, homie, dude-ski, my man, <br /> I gotta say it, if I were you, and if <br /> MY bitches wouldn't or couldn't <br /> bring home “bacon” sufficient to<br /> the day, that is, stuff enuff to keep <br /> the crib cush and cozy, I wouldn't <br /> go around admitting to it. That shit <br /> takes some real, well, it's not balls, <br /> it can't be that, given your...um, <br /> I mean, due to... well, never mind. <br /> But you know it, as well as any of us, <br /> that's sure not the reason.<br /> WTF, holmes, it must just be<br /> the damn and downright simple; <br /> and to be fair, I've got to give credit, <br /> willingly, where and when it's due: <br /> so, though it does for sure goddamn well <br /> boggle the mind to consider it, I think<br /> we've got to accept the facts when <br /> they're plain. It must be, can only be:<br /> you’re even dumber than you look.</span></div>
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Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-22358973226100434812013-12-17T01:52:00.002-05:002013-12-17T01:52:43.562-05:00In memory of William John Fiske<div class="uiAttachmentTitle" data-ft="{"type":11,"tn":"C"}" style="text-align: justify;">
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0].[0]"></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0].[0]">Eulogy written a few days after I learned that Wm. was gone, intended, for his family and friends to capture some of his unique personality. I read this eventually at his memorial at Quarry Hill:</span><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0].[1]" /><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0].[2]" /><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0].[3]">FEARLESS LEADER</span></span><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3]"><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0]"><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[0]" /><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[1]" /><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[2]">to his family:</span><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[3]" /><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[4]" /><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[5]">I expected to be talking to you, probably this weekend, but Brion’s email had your addresses, so I don’t want to wait. It took me almost a week for this to really begin to sink in. Since then I’ve been flooded with images of William as the extraordinarily happy person he naturally was (and wanted everyone else to be as well), and with distinct memories of how he exceeded every known limit when it came to gonzo style, outrageous never-before-existent humor, and, most of all, in his all-embracing love for people. </span><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[6]" /><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[7]" /><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[8]">When I came to QH, I was 21: Wm. was 14. In hindsight, I can adjudge, he was more man than five of me at the time. I eventually cut that by advancement (in my mind) to a 2 or a 1.5 maybe (maybe), but no one could ever exceed, resist, deny, or keep up with him. That he always looked after me (with a sharp eye on my utility, of course, but still . . .) perhaps had something to do with the rational tether my witness provided. Now we can rewind that experience and extract from it testimony to sketch a rough portrait of this uniquely gifted and extraordinarily complex individual who was our hearty friend and raucous compatriot. </span><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[9]" /><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[10]" /><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[11]">William was so overwhelming he seemed dangerous. I often felt, I think, that it would be better to avoid him, so easy would it be to be swept away by the strength of his dedication to action, however inspired or ill-advised. But there was no avoiding him, just as there was no stopping him. And it's been my good fortune to work with him and ride beside him over thirty years, the prime of our lives; it’s added immeasurable dimension, substance, and excitement to my life just being around him. None of us will ever forget him. </span><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[12]" /><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[13]" /><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[14]">Many of us, when we’ve gone, will, like William, leave the powerful and enduring legacy of our children, and now their children’s children, for all time to come. Let us not dismiss or forget that cardinal reality. But William, like LB, Irv and Barb, and yourselves, have also formed the core of a family (unlike any in all time) whose committed destiny was to take us in when we were uprooted, to feed us, and clothe us, to open our exceedingly provincial (if willing) minds to a more primal and anarchic alternative than we had imagined could exist, and then to grow right beside us--with us--as we multiplied, over a stretch of paradisiacal years we thought could never end. </span><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[15]" /><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[16]" /><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[17]">Now, here we stand, roots severed once again, and a full third perhaps of our lives remaining--or not. How quick the end can come. To any, we see. And none can lay claim to even one more breath by any right nor even ability. We stand perhaps, because we’ve not yet given our full measure. William did. Every damn day he did. He was my friend, the war leader this good soldier required; and not least, he was the caretaker, purveyor, and chief practitioner of a sense of unstoppable good humor, a fun that charted the outrageous right over the edge of anything normal, far past the ordinary, and deep into the beyond. </span><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[18]" /><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[19]" /><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[20]">Let us remember that it is given to some to assault the known world’s limits with an originality never before seen. This was such a man. And his energy and verve, his panache and compassion will always inhabit our memories, and vivid they be as our dreams. But this epic and unintentional experiment really happened. Here was our life lived, all outside the known. And here was our leader, our protector, our friend. Until, suddenly, he was not. Thank you all, for all the same as he stood for, and for being his family. It does go on. And is not to be forgotten. Ever. . . .</span><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[21]" /><br data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[22]" /><span data-reactid=".r[30hu9].[1][3][1]{comment424372797613507_6259412}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].[23]">Rick</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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---------------------------------------------------<br /><br />a piece such as this, an immediately evoked affectionate remembrance--here reiterated much later and seemingly removed from its context--might seem therefore, to a neutral party, overly sentimental, perhaps even exaggerated. but I would question the accuracy of those evaluations, and most of all their relevancy, by suggesting that their flaw is introduced by a couple of key oversights; namely, fir...st, the implication that there is any factor which acts to limit the operable context pertaining to the loss of a loved one, for the living who remain, and since not, that the context is all-pervasive. and in no sense then can these expressions be "out of context." second, the unchallenged assumption that, the more vivid the remembrance, the more nearly its expression ought to coincide with the event of the loss, instead of later, when such contemplation might better serve, even, be more savored, with acute grief more quiescent, less intrusive, and less likely to diminish the satisfaction and pleasure to be found there, in a reiteration of what made the loved one so unique, and so loved. and likewise, just so, is fond memory freshened and revivified, and perhaps informed as well by the ensuing advance of our growth and progress, as continues apace while we still kick. such ceremony acts as well as another way to bring us together again. in other, fewer words, there is no "out of context," and later is just an even better time, it seems to me, for memorial. that's why when I saw this page, I wanted to bring this forward again. and there's my rebuttal of any suggestion of overly sentimental, a priori, should it think to arise. think instead appropriately vivid, and hopefully fun to remember</div>
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I don't think so either. less than is in order, personally, if off the mark at all, per sentiment. <br /><br /> insufflation off the sideboard of the skidder, in winter's early dusk, saws at our feet melting holes in the snow, was only just the ticket due we two deserving exhausted, merely injecting the evening with interest.</div>
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a different day, and contra-distinct. this one:...Brought to you by BAD IDEA Jeans: "If we re-route the brook with the blade of the skidder, come right through the yard, right about here, we let it flow over the unbucked saw logs, it just might melt away this quarter-inch glaze of ice, and we wouldn't need to chip a circumferential path with a hatchet all the way around every one for every single, simple cut."<br /><br /> "yeah, maybe. anyway, what could go wrong? it's only water."</div>
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more ice sure, but more importantly, threatened loss of the entire yard, the saw logs washed like pickup sticks downstream. only an "every man on the place" response--which we called in like the "Broken Arrow" radio call command of the Viet Nam war which when given indicated to fighter jets already scrambled and stacked every thousand feet to the ceiling all over the country, that an American unit... was in immediate danger of being overrun, directing those pilots to bring every bit of ordinance you have to bear on this patch of ground bearing these coordinates, and bring it NOW-- and a furious bit of sandbagging, prevented the worst of the damage. all agreed that it was fortunate that Wm. and I had been on-site working late when the bank had first "let go,"and that obviously it was only our quick and decisive response that had saved the day, and the whole operation. ah well. heroes again. another day, another five dollars (my daily pay for running the woods crew and doing the felling (with Mark and Michael C.) while Wm. and Ralph and Sam E. handled the yard and skidder and bulldozer)</div>
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we were using the profit to purchase the land itself, the face of the mountain across from us from Bambi-land down almost to Reggie Andrews's, a piece that was now up for sale by the original consortium (or their heirs) of beatnik friends or Irv and Barb, who had invested in it, and now it was for sale and with developers sniffing around--hence both our urgency, and going "pro" as far as logging an<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show">d woods work, and the modest pay of twenty-five a week, which still was not entirely to be sniffed at. it was like a hundred or so would be today. we finished the job over two winters and beautifully. it was ready to be logged again even more productively twenty years later. (I don't think it was--if not there's a small fortune in saw logs in there still on the stump.) trees we left (under 12 inches in diameter) are surely 18-20 inches now if it didn't get logged again.)<br /><br /> there were several years running when as still pure amateurs and for no pay, obviously, none sought, it seemed like a good idea to bring back rounds in the green panel truck from our woodlot (our woodlot was designated by the US Forest Service to cut firewood, felling marked trees); it was on top of a mountain on the west side of Warren and was only accessible (we discovered) by a sixty foot bridge over mud that we had to build from 2 x 12 planks elevated on chunks of firewood, that allowed us then to winch the truck up the hill it traversed, if we could avoid going off the planks. we snapped Harold Hubbard's come-along like a rubber band the first time we got stuck hopelessly and had to call in professional help. we would fill the trucks with rounds (Mark's big flatbed truck as well) then drive them back to Quarry Hill, dump them where the new driveway is and split and then stack it right there for drying. in that one central spot we accumulated well over a hundred cords of split stacked wood, which in the fall we triumphantly went around delivering about 15 cords to each house. only a couple years of that method had us devising a more efficient strategy, dispensing with the splitting and stacking and central location and just delivering truckloads of rounds to each house until they had enough then going to the next, all directly from the woods, wherever we were cutting. this left the splitting and stacking to those who that particular household could impel to undertake the job. it wasn't as much fun, but it made so much more sense. still, I'd love to see a picture of our hundred cord plus woodpile, all split and stacked, that stretched in a huge irregular rectangle from the swing set to the path that ran by ginger's, from the side of the old driveway almost down to what would be the start of the new one someday in the future. for now-- we were young once, and oh man, we were strong</span></div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-49101650519205618022013-12-17T01:17:00.000-05:002013-12-17T01:18:04.372-05:00What Would DEVO Do?<br />
<h5 class="western" style="font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Go
ahead, ask yourself: what would DEVO do? Scan your library of life
lessons collated by the band that traded in their kneepads, their
armor and exuberant stage dives for hazmat suits topped with
pyramidal resonator helmets (these--perhaps their single most
striking oddity of affectation, resembling nothing so much as
inverted plastic flower pots--they don them without ceremony, with
modesty and grim commitment to their post--service, we should never
forget, so we won't have to similarly serve) and accompanied by their
now signature chanting robotic choreography, one that mirrors nothing
so much as the workaday whirlwind reflexive responses, the essential
rhythms and syncopated seizures of middle class white America,
tipping off toward its inevitable fall, glimpsed there just at the
cusp of its suburban apex of influence, the strap beginning to slip
into destiny, a legacy of never again. We are assured, however, in
our helpless twilight, that though the death throes of kulture will
surely be characteristically ugly, yet that DEVO will be on-site
sorting through the debris, picking up after the disaster, restoring
what dignity may remain somewhat serviceable, performing their
knowing spiritual triage and driving the still careening ambulance of
state, pell-mell with due discipline, one could say, straight on
through to the funerary.</span></h5>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-48059015723914337862013-12-17T01:08:00.000-05:002013-12-17T01:09:34.884-05:00I Guess For Some People<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you know who I mean, this
</div>
exposure deal is a good thing.<br />
Even inadvertent secrets can
<br />
eat you away, all on idle;<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That's when it's time for a</div>
power-management scheme;<br />
in lieu of that I'm repelling
<br />
all data, mined or revealed.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's more economical to
</div>
place the weight of my<br />
emotional baggage, across
<br />
the wide lap of my neighbor;<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Of course for the efficient
</div>
distribution of labor and load,<br />
but also it's handy to have
<br />
there at hand, I might need
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a feeling of victimization, say,
</div>
or want to summon some
<br />
perverse compulsion to write,
<br />
or to sky-dive in the nude, or
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to get divorced and get pregnant,
</div>
well, it will all be right there,
<br />
virtually, any time<br />
you need to pull it out.<br />
<br />Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-15789625601726732362013-12-17T00:59:00.000-05:002013-12-17T01:00:25.195-05:00Just Asking: Can I Be Serious<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
for once? Apparently not. I'm far<br />
too set in my ways: locked into
<br />
a perspective of perpetual need;<br />
what emerges from deep storage--<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
wet and snapping, biting itself on
</div>
the page—needs nothing so much<br />
as an answering rhythm, a syncopated<br />
triage to repair the tear left behind
in
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the mind. Well, it's an avocation; at
least
</div>
in the short-term, it keeps me writing.<br />
But wouldn't it nice once to write<br />
something of value, that is, of value
to
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
at least one other human being,
</div>
animal even; I'm not proud; or tired.
<br />
But that's not gonna happen.
<br />
How could anyone care about
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
this extreme self-interest but me?
</div>
There's just no way. Actually,
<br />
there is one; and its benefits
<br />
go far beyond the possibility of<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
someone getting value from your poems.
</div>
It's finding (and keeping) an actual
<br />
girlfriend. There's no more exalted<br />
pursuit than that, anywhere. Plus,<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
they always get value from poems
</div>
pitched their way, especially
<br />
poems written with them in mind.
<br />
If they've ever been in love, most
likely,<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
that's just how they were snagged.
</div>
Poets can rarely resist such, some
<br />
would say, cynical use of their
<br />
alleged gift; I mean, like making
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a woman fall in love with you by</div>
writing lovely verse. But, I would
argue,
<br />
it's such a lovely result—not to
mention,<br />
its being poetry's main purpose since,
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
roughly, the beginning of time—</div>
so it seems kind of sacrilegious now
<br />
to associate it with something cynical,
<br />
to suggest such behavior is selfish, or
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
call it manipulative, as some surely
do,
</div>
to persuade another person--even one
<br />
of exactly those qualities you happen
<br />
to find so particularly attractive,
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
perhaps even adore--to get that person</div>
to love you, too. But, so what? I'm not<br />
writing poems for those skags, the
<br />
kind who find romance disgusting.
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm looking for a woman
</div>
who can be had for, approximately,
<br />
a decent limerick. That's my type<br />
o' gal, exactly.; and we'll get on
fine.
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-41212891496812140132013-10-13T16:45:00.003-04:002013-10-14T05:29:27.680-04:00Lifelike <div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
when that voice from twenty years ago</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
asked as before: “why should we care</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
about this person, why would we</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
be moved?” I still couldn't say.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and when my favorite parts of my
twenty-year-old</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“poems”—the “too-easy”
parts—still seemed</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the best, and still satisfied me most,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I began to wonder: was this all some
mistake?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
my enthusiasm immersing me, once more</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
again beyond my ken? perhaps I was
never a “writer”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in the first place; that would explain
much; perhaps</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
my “poems” were simply remarkably
lifelike</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
facsimiles, nothing more, something
near,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but not quite, like a life: aping
ethics, moral</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
concern and compassion, enough to fool
me</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(a mere stylist, not a jot more)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
for twenty long years into the
thousand... well,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
what then shall we call them, if not
poems,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
then what? I had no answer; still,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I had this; one more, another whatever</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you call it. but as to why you should</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
care at all, or even why I do, if I do,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I still have nothing.<br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-34714789994957749192013-06-24T08:59:00.003-04:002013-06-24T09:00:35.357-04:00Here's The Thing, The Only Thing<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
<br />
<div>
<br />
Understand it absolutely: I say exactly <br />
what I mean. Moreover, and this requires <br />
the former, but is key: <br />
<br />
I mean exactly what I say. <br />
<br />
Not more; and no less; especially <br />
nothing fancy. I urge you to the proof. <br />
Here, look. Follow the magnet's glow<br />
<br />
to the number of the text: there... 'the unwanted.'<br />
<br />
Time, it is written, is a dripping dung wagon, its<br />
teamsters, three fools cheating at runes, so to gain<br />
for themselves the primeval privilege (and honor) <br />
<br />
of first-mounting the lead buck of the team <br />
<br />
(the team, in this case, being the single spavined goat,<br />
as shown, suggesting it was worth the trouble taken– <br />
damn, you just can't make this shit up)<br />
<br />
</div>
</div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-25409880709731536892013-05-28T00:24:00.002-04:002013-05-28T00:24:49.497-04:00Roasta Locka Wack-Wack
<br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
is just my pen name. I'm given one
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
sounding a bit more refined, although</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
it's nowhere near so sublime. While
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm on the subject, however, I should
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
probably say this: I've less reason
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to employ a pseudonym, than
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a boot-black. Or demolitions expert;
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
or councilor of romantic liaisons.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-21556561678071271532013-05-28T00:23:00.004-04:002013-06-24T09:02:27.900-04:00I Dealt Blackjack At<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the Queen's Table; found my fortune</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
at her knee. All in all, she was</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
quite the sport. Slow to anger</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
when I'd cheat; fairly tolerant</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
of indiscretion, and almost never
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
complained when she busted.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
Actually a pretty nice girl, just</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
like the song says. Not my type,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
though. I'd sooner your back-stabbing
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
blonde with a bone in her nose, than
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
any of them fat-ankled Windsors.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-64071800783131045412013-05-27T17:27:00.000-04:002013-05-27T17:27:52.358-04:00Go Ahead, Ignore Me<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
<br />
<div>
<br />
I won't even know it; my aim<br />
is pretty well off-trail of<br />
<br />
your greasy smear; wide<br />
by a couple of states, I guess,<br />
<br />
on a good day. Maybe you<br />
can nevermnd that, but<br />
<br />
get this, junior: it's not just<br />
my bright white linens; it's<br />
<br />
their threadcount. And,<br />
this woman that I love now;<br />
<br />
I mistook her for a Ronnette.<br />
I'm not even joking. Yeah,<br />
<br />
she's half my age, and married,<br />
no surprise there...just my type, right?<br />
<br />
So it would seem. At least,<br />
we needed no introduction.<br />
<br />
She looked up at me several times<br />
as she filled my prescriptions,<br />
<br />
and each time, smiled<br />
so very sweetly.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-59313117498462787662013-05-27T17:21:00.004-04:002013-05-27T17:24:40.678-04:00Occupation Nation, Last Word – Once<br />
there was a will to get home that same<br />
day; eventually, complications stretched<br />
long into morrow. This peculiar mix of<br />
right now and maybe never before or again<br />
is giving me the heaves at the jump-cuts.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, and not for standing on<br />
ceremony, we should perhaps cling again<br />
to our naked proclivities, let us depend upon<br />
their stout and loyal service, to once more<br />
comport, just as if real juice throbbed in<br />
<br />
their stems again, yet and that still with<br />
a head full with beans, or even somewhat less,<br />
some benighted corpulent, one not even<br />
a legume. oi vey, I would say to that, and<br />
there's a rough mix, matey. a particular bad<br />
<br />
end. hey I pay rent here, there's the stripe,<br />
here's my chop, if mayhap you don't like it,<br />
feel free, mon, move right along, I won't<br />
say smartly. I try to be fair. It's not what<br />
I'd call an overriding concern, just a cobbed-up<br />
<br />
thing to aim at, a target, like beets in a basket,<br />
high atop a pole suggesting, somehow, we are<br />
getting there; that this is the bridge to the<br />
payout, trail to where the air begins to pound,<br />
announcing a space-occupying presence, bearing,<br />
<br />
of course, the resident's key and brim-full the vial<br />
of incipient, or is that eminent, liquor of drama.<br />
live virus, jack, wafting up from that thin-tubed<br />
neck to nowhere, its own dreams, complex concoctions<br />
never-laden with concerns such as space and<br />
<br />
where does one, so to say, actually, huddle,<br />
hunker down, live, that is, you know, like, hang?<br />
Wouldn't most of that more likely be conducted<br />
just beneath one's hat, or lacking that, more<br />
exactly then, reside right between one's ears?<br />
<br />
and that then far more I risk than any simply-<br />
surrounding construction, so seen as more likely<br />
and more properly fit to transport the man, indeed,<br />
the king of kings, the all-seeing eye of the lord?<br />
not less. well, these questions are not so easily<br />
<br />
assayed. There's the ayes and the nays, and<br />
let's never forget to lift up sore thanks for our<br />
pensive contemplatives. still, we admit, it exceeds<br />
even the inevitable, we're professionals,<br />
we can feign surprise; it is, after all, even at the<br />
<br />
lowest stripe of least, quite incredible, and never<br />
the least bit less than it; year upon year we fail so<br />
at failing, getting nowhere, and not in any time soon,<br />
a sustainable pace, and level of maintenance. and<br />
if the strap starts to slip, then, still,<br />
<br />
we keep coming, arriving, bearing the meat.<br />
<br />
<br />
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4554984230113643971.post-78531871970185402622013-05-25T16:58:00.005-04:002013-05-27T17:29:12.707-04:00I Read In A Quiet Voice<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEifxcyL2EqxhkN_zwKXqy1aTgUjut-SHJ3vrRoc746i_5oEZTDy5m5qm8Zz9TA3Q1JfJ9Z2067a8cSqRSqz8qEPbLfEyjYmz7ztiZodlHnWVERtaEejfWsdWOOFSk4B5Hp8qDml-ddLAN/s1600/3A+illusion+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEifxcyL2EqxhkN_zwKXqy1aTgUjut-SHJ3vrRoc746i_5oEZTDy5m5qm8Zz9TA3Q1JfJ9Z2067a8cSqRSqz8qEPbLfEyjYmz7ztiZodlHnWVERtaEejfWsdWOOFSk4B5Hp8qDml-ddLAN/s200/3A+illusion+2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
too quick for reflection, a mere
flit-speed
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
dead flush to and skewed exactly zero
from
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
really aligned with that crazy mixed-up
coconut
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lucy, before Carmine's spinning
butterfly toes</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
sank any chance never had by one such
as me --</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
poet-recluse, bard of the meantime,
till we get there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There being where being there alone
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
expects light-piercing literal dashes
to
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
do just what primordial dashes do best,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and leave space for a mark, again, like
me;</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
taken at short odds, and spilled long:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
how many, remember now, is it ... nine?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No, no, seven, seven cherries make the
rack.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And the man (not that one), is he
forged first in
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
profile's brief suggestion of image? or
faulted, first
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
for leaving, then for going (not quite
the same);
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and only lastly, for the brief wanting
of
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
more than they were near aligned to. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Rick Skogsberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17036961509980495642noreply@blogger.com3