she said she needed a valley by antho32 at ibm dot net
why richard brautigan should be the patron saint of ‘zines by erik miller
a missing chapter to ‘trout fishing in america’
her frown by dave
it soon occured to him by chip
he gave away most of his hats by john clark
valley by michael daily
gabby by cecil j kreiger
your image by deb
Your Image
I find myself
haunted
by your image
Picture of you at every stage
photo after photo
infant to adult
always sweetly smiling
Standing on a
wooden footbridge
the background provided
by Monet and his gardens
at Giverney
The background
seemingly arranged
as a frame
for your luminous beauty
for you alone
Another, laughing
in the orderly
multi-hued gardens
of Holland
Tulips, the fragrant crocus and
those harbingers of spring,
the bright yellow daffodils
taking their young spring glory
from your face
from your joy
from your youth
They would not be
as stunning
nor as fragrant
without your presence
These photos elicit smiles
bring forth laughter
memories of time passed
destinations visited
Yet the others beckon me
as well – the others
I wish had not been taken
Yet I find myself drawn to them
The life and luminosity
gone from your face
Your wonderful porcelain skin
is now obscured
replaced by heavy pancake
The sheen has departed
your long hair
hair that glinted gold
in the brillant
Provence sunlight
Your eyes are closed,
but not in peace
My right hand
clicks the mouse
again and again
I cannot bear these pictures
Yet neither can I ignore them
© 2006 DT
Morose Remembrance Prompted by Richard Brautigan’s 71st Birthday
Funereal Black
an envelope addressed to you
unlike any of the others
not a hospital bill
nor a balance due reminder
nothing concerning your expenses
instead, a simple envelope
return address requested
to the board of regents
inside, your university grant
a note of a bright future
perhaps I should send it
to your last known address
a wind and snow scoured spot
do they deliver mail
to the graveyard?
© DT 2006
MINIMALISM
in three lines
richard brautigan could say more
than writers like me
can manage in four
i’m pretty sure I’ve seen you before
in the shades of a tree in some memory.
and you were smiling the whole world at me.
and you were smiling the sun.
and the crowd of people watching
were astounded by our staring.
we were still and moving,
harsh and soothing.
this is the hand i waved to you.
and these are the lips that i smiled.
you kept moving closer.
and kept walking away.
and i kept standing there
with my head in the air
and my arms at my sides.
this is the part where i’d swallow
where i feel empty and hollow.
you disappeared after that
like you always do.
i awoke today and followed my feet
and it lead me to that tree.
i’m pretty sure i saw you before.
in the shades of this tree in some memory.
this is closer than i ever knew.
and sweeter than your taste.
the sky’s a piece of glue
holding us in place.
and it may break at any moment.
reading Mr Brautigan’s works
drive me through
now I’m able to steer
while lighting my cigarettes
I can’t remember her name,
but I’m certain I left the Hawkline Monster
on the coffee table
she didn’t read
twenty years ago
You kissed me in a dream again
and pulled away when I kissed back.
Knowing though
that we are as ever
wrong, I kissed back all the same.
You still played your game with me
even in my own mind. I let you.
Either because I knew it was fantasy
or because in fantasy is the only time I see you.
I let us draw nearer and dive into it.
Giving you my soul was never hard, it was
trust that has always eluded you.
I can still feel you up against me
begging for me to want you,
to show the signs of wanting you again
after all this & all these years.
So, I did.
A moan, a tighter grasp and you pushed me away
demanding; “What are you doing?”
I said; “Kissing you back!”
Then your upper hand vanished to be replaced
by the memory of black and white figures, gestures of broken time and the laugh you left
ringing in the air of a reality that didn’t happen.
last year, pyro…
…this year, not so much…
now, they’re all still crazy…
…just a little bit safer.
“All of us have a place in history. Mine is clouds.”
–Richard Brautigan
MAKING CLOUDS
As men,
we sit with the night sky
counting constellations,
collecting westcoast dreams like
too many children chasing lightning bugs
with cupped hands.
As poets,
we struggle with the last stanza
wanting it perfect, but
never really connecting
the dots.
Richard Brautigan Lives
I see him in words
When I open his books
Long gone
His books still speak
In a voice of differences
To a world that’s changed
Between each line
I hear his laughter
Along with his need
To move on
From the book “Absorbed By The Sun”
—————————————
Brautigan
I find myself
Reading a dead man’s poems
And wondering
If he’ll have time
To talk with me
From the book “Pinacolada Child”
?On December 14, 1955, Richard Brautigan was arrested for throwing a rock through a police-station window, supposedly in order to be sent to prison and fed. He was arrested for disorderly conduct and had to pay a $25 fine; however, he was instead committed to the Oregon State Hospital on December 24, 1955, after police noticed patterns of erratic behavior.?
What Brautigan Was Talking About
?What?s this? All I wanted
was a place to sleep, some food
to eat. I think enough
about clouds, the lightning
making love behind them
like candles burning
behind whispered prayers
at night.?
The cops do not look around
or speak. A light rain begins
to fall.
?This rain,? Richard says
?it reminds me of a party
full of talking children,
the sound of it.?
The driver flips a switch
and the windshiled wipers
go back and
forth.
?I dreamed I was a stranger
to myself. I shook hands
with myself. I looked
so tired. My dream-self lay down
and I watched myself fall asleep
and as soon as I did
I woke up.?
The cop in the passenger seat
raises a fist to his mouth,
coughs.
Richard looks out the window
at the falling rain.
?You know what I?d really
like to feel at least once in my
life? Fresh sunlight. Not this
8 minute hand me down light.
Do you ever get the feeling
we?re living in our own
past? Like we can?t help it
because everything moves
so slow, even daylight
runs 8 minutes late.?
The radio in the dashboard
crackles, a voice spits out
numbers, more static,
and the silence that follows
is large enough to cast
a see through shadow on
everything.
Richard smiles at this.
The corners of his
moustache lift up 2 inches
closer to the sky than they were
just a moment ago.
The children stop talking
when it stops raining. The cops
are uncomfortable being
cops with Richard smiling
like that in the backseat.
Later, after they drop Richard off
at the crazy place, they spend the
rest of the day trying to see
the same things Richard saw.
When they can?t, they feel better
when they get their hair cut short.
They like what they see, staring back
at them in the barber?s chair.
They feel better about prisons,
crazy places, the roles they pay
and their own roles as well
necessary institutions
for a society that made them
necessary in the first
place.
In the meantime, 8 minutes ahead
of now, Richard is standing
in a sunny field with his arms stretched
out for miles
and he thinks
about clouds.
From CJ’s newest book (#5) of poetry “On Tinker Street”
————————–
Puss In Boots
I loved it
When she walked nakedly
Into the bedroom
Only wearing
Her hiking boots
Kind of reminded me
Of a children’s
Bedtime story
… Well… sort of
————————–
Fat Bamboo
It felt funny just to say it
“Fat Bamboo”
Almost as if the two words
Had no business being together
But what if there was such a thing
What could you do with fat bamboo?
I think I would build a house
A log cabin… a fat bamboo home
With floors made from fat bamboo boards
And a nice strong couch of fat bamboo
I would make a fat bamboo bed
And when the night was right
I would take you into my fat bamboo bedroom
And make fat bamboo love to you
————————–
Zen Buddhist Bird
A Buddhist bird flies
Under the eyes
Of winter’s sun
As I watch his flight
Across a lonely wintry sky
Gazing up
At his long, long flight south
He diverts himself
From the chilly northern wind
A wind
That the sun cannot warm
He diverts himself
With a single thought
As only a Zen Buddhist bird might do
And asks
What is the sound
Of one wing flapping?
For one year Greg stopped every night at around 11:04pm to buy a six pack of Busch light tall boys and two singles. It would take Greg about four minutes to walk across the street from work. There is in mundane routine a peace, not a great peace of course like an accord of the sunrise in spring but a small peace like sleeping late and muting the alarm twice.
Greg had developed this routine initially for physical reasons; not sleeping well and all. Sometime in the course of the year it became as psychologically motivated as anything. Heading for the mountains is a pleasant thought after a night shift in the 20th century’s concrete grayness. On a rainy evening Greg was apt to get a ride and would buy the normal six pack and two singles, plus one more single affording him the luxury of magnanimous gesture while maintaining his prescribed measure.
“Want one?”
“No thanks”
“Thanks for the lift”
And so it went. For this one year Greg would also buy the same cigarettes and became acquainted by name with the clerk who also seemed to enjoy the peace found in mundane routine.
“Gimmee a pack of cigarettes Raymond.”
“What kind?”
“Basic light hunerts”
And so it went. Many times Greg would play games with Raymond and offer some remark in response to “what kind?” such as “The kind I’ve been getting for the last year” To which Raymond would respond “what kind?” Greg would intermittently become pissed off and amused but could never break Raymond’s tenacity. Raymond’s dedication to predicate was magic. Not a great magic like making the pyramids disappear but like a chewing gum that makes your teeth black.
And so it went. Greg moved on from the job and the routine for reasons possibly related to the consumption of a gallon and a half of Bush light tall boys every night for a year and left Raymond to his resolve as solid and unchanging as the mountains.