13 thoughts on “by fans

  1. 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

  2. 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

  3. MINIMALISM

    in three lines
    richard brautigan could say more
    than writers like me
    can manage in four

  4. 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.

  5. reading Mr Brautigan’s works
    drive me through
    now I’m able to steer
    while lighting my cigarettes

  6. 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

  7. 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.

  8. last year, pyro…
    …this year, not so much…
    now, they’re all still crazy…
    …just a little bit safer.

  9. “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.

  10. 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”

  11. ?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.

  12. 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?

  13. 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.

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