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.

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?

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.

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”

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.

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.