Trail Of Tears

The American Bison, once spread across this land, as the sand on the beach. Those that say they know, estimate their number at over 60 million, once upon a time, that is.

They were wild and untameable, but they were food, shelter, and clothing to those who lived upon these lands.

By 1890, there were 750 left.

Today, there is a manageable number. They live on Ted Turner's ranch.

Manifest Destiny: we're here, it's here, so therefore, it must be ours.

When I was a boy, my Father never locked the doors. We were never robbed, but i suppose someone was.

When I was a boy, there were no seat belts. No law to buckle them. People either cut them off, or tucked them into the seats. I stood on the front seat, and if my father had to brake suddenly, he would use the arm bar. We were never killed, but I suppose someone was.

I would leave the house in early summer morning, to go find a ballgame, or ride my bike, or just find some soft grass to play in. I was five years old. I was never abducted or molested, but I'm sure someone was.

I remember my mother sending me to the store for cigarettes with just a note. The clerk never questioned it, but you can't do that anymore.

My father was the fire chief for forty years. When the bell rang, all the volunteers would bolt for the station and the first one there usually drove the fire truck. Most often, it was the least sober among them, as the local tavern was only a block away. The fires got put out, the truck never crashed, but I suppose, somewhere, one did.

The easiest way to destroy the humans who had been living on this land for ever and one day, was to take away their food, shelter, and clothing. When we couldn't kill the buffalo fast enough to appease our lust for gold and land, we tricked the natives themselves into killing them. It worked.

I used to like to fly. My dad would take me to the airport to watch the jets take off. Flying isn't fun anymore. Not with x-rays, strip search and the fear of some evil being slipping through and blowing you up.

And there were no armed guards in school, but of course, there were no drugs to give the kids back then for all the disorders we assign to them now. Funny, no one ever shot up schools back then.

Have you seen the cars pulled over on the freeway? Whole families just trying to get Little Rock, sitting in the ditch while a small platoon of policemen search their luggage.

It wasn't always like that.

I can remember when if you saw a car broke down, you just naturally pulled over to see if you could help. That's just the way it was.. If you tried that now, you'd get searched too. Best to just move along and not be noticed.

I've hitch hiked, and picked up hitch hikers. But not in a long time.

And be careful having that third drink with dinner at Applebees. The police are hiding in the bushes watching, timing you. To protect the others.

Hey! remember this? A person is presumed innocent, until proven guilty.

Now we have random drug testing (except for the Senators and Congressmen that made it a law. And after all, they only decide if we go to war or not, so what's the big deal if they have a few drinks at lunch) so, now it's-a person is presumed guilty unless they can prove they're innocent.

I guess that's sorta the same thing.

Isn't it?

Crazy Horse, Geronimo, Cochise, Sitting Bull-they were renegades. Non Conformists.

We tried real hard to convince the natives that they'd be much better off on reservations. Under our protection where they could depend on us for food, shelter, and clothing.

Most drank the kool aid, and why not? Really, what choice was there?

But some rebelled, fought back, even though they knew they would fail. In their hearts and in their spirits, they had no choice.

I didn't grow up with Wal Mart, but we have them now. Seems silly to plant a garden or even learn how to, when we can get it all so much cheaper and prettier at Wal Mart. And if you can't afford Wally's apples, our government will give you stamps so you can. And why learn to sew if poor children in Bangladesh will do it cheap.

Ben Franklin said, "Those that would trade their liberties for temporary security, deserve neither, and will lose both."

I guess we're all living longer now, and some would say better. But I can't help but wonder when the measure of life became a yard stick rather than weights. I still remember when life weighed less than a feather.

Chief Joseph tried to be a renegade, but one day, just short of winning, he said, "I will fight no more forever"

That makes me sad.

But now we have the New York Police to weed out the renegades. If you look like one, you'll be considered one.

We once told Gorbachev to tear down the wall. So he did. Now we have built a great wall of soldiers to keep out the lazy, drunken, stinkin no good Mexicans. Can't have them coming up here raping our women, selling their drugs, stealing our jobs. We didn't mind them washing our windows or picking our fruit for a quarter an hour, but they've just gone too far.

I tried to think of all we've warred with, Canada, Mexico, Britain, France, Spain, ourselves, Russia, Germany......Damn! It's just easier to list Nations we haven't warred with. Have we fought the Swedes?

Well, there's still time.

We told Saddam we won't tolerate WMD. Didn't we put him in power? Ha! turns out he didn't have any anyway. Jokes on him! Now it's Syria's turn. They may have gassed a thousand people.

Um, wasn't it us that dropped two atomic bombs on cities of civilians? Women, children, old people, dogs, whatever. How many did we kill? How many are still dying?

I don't remember our apology for that. Do You?

If that wasn't WMD, I guess I have the definition wrong.

No matter. We're all safe. Fully protected and taken care of.

We live longer and safer now. Soon we'll all have health insurance. And no, you wont have a choice.

And we have Face book, free porn, playstation, football, and reality TV to entertain us, control us, while our protective government takes care of the serious business.

I used to wonder what it was like, before we got here. When teepees were the cities of the Plains. When time as we have invented it, didn't exist. When every day there was a danger of dying, but no one feared. The grizzly, the panther, and the wolf roamed border to border. There were no laws other than those written upon the heart. Those that lived, lived unmeasured by length.

And I wondered what it was like to have it all taken. To be put on reservations.

But I don't wonder much anymore. I think I understand.

I am a renegade, in the manner of those before me. I too will lose. But my heart wont let me surrender

.

The lilacs still bloom

but the fragrance has grown dull

the stars have gone dim

the moon has lost it's mystique,

and need

while the sun has become our blister

that shall never heal

we no longer sprint

through the woods, tripping over

boulder and log

out of breath

bruised and bleeding

to watchful clouds

of silver glory

and the whispering of

a laughing brook

waiting for our fall

we now march

across a barren desert

only to reach the other side

alive

but so far

from living

assorted random thoughts

I have always been lonely

innate

it is your clinical condemnation

that has made it a crime

I was only truly me

when i was me

truly, with you

when the river rolls by

when the train disappears

the best part of me

always goes along

leaving me

with what little remains

a warm fire

is like a mother's apron

~there lies the danger

if it's cat,

why isn't it citten?

a shrug

is a poor excuse for ignorance

i have a boss who pays me,

a banker to count my money

and a salesman eager to clean my carpet

we vote for sunny smiles

and my wife cooks well

if i say "I love you"

just right

don't kid yourself

we're all prostitutes

words cannot be trusted

unless spoken in hate

no one truly desires to be free

who would we blame

for our misery?

Sorry

you never should've loved me

i should've never let you

i'll always be

two places at once

a monument for pigeons

to adore

pollen on the wind

untraceable

a malcontent, incurable

a conscience intruceable

a peace loving

war machine

i am a wanderer

flower to heart

smile to touch

forever

looking beyond

hating what lives

within

i could never please you

nor me

and you could never hold

my ever restless heart

race on, i must

into oblivion

leaving ruin

in my wake

all this

i have known

since first

i began to know

yet,

i paused to love you,

let you

love me

knowing

the shifting winds

and changing tides

would pull me along

I'm sorry

i let you love me

but i'm not sorry

i loved you

it is my way

i wish

you had known

Castle of Sand

hypnotized by the ocean

swept up, in her dreaming arms

i believed i could

so there, on her lonely beach

i built a castle

from my shifting sand

the sun rose, set

moon upon moon

yet build, even in sleep

did i

when at last, it was finished

i sat back to admire

my accomplishment

oh, it was grand!

who knew, such ability

was hidden within me

with a longing to save it

to protect it, from

storm and tide

i sought to move it

having forgotten

i built it, from

my shifting sand

the tides did rise, the

storms did come, and i learned

the limits of my dreams, reside

on the edge of hope

i went to the sea

one day, to say i was sorry

but the sea didn't care

and the sand lay solemn

filled with contempt

for making it

believe i could

My Education

ever know a night that sleeps,

like the echo of starlight whispering?

it's just after midnight, the blizzarding winds

long gone, the flakes now tempered

to soft white daisies, signature

to a masterpiece

the moon, a shadow of itself,

drifts through the clouds left behind

singing a silent song,

an ancient remedy

I park my beat

off the road forgotten,

look to the forest still,

and step into whatever

mystery her painted splendor

might unravel in my

tangled heart

in school, i learned mathematics

to better know my failings

-and others success

and English, so i could be stupid

or brilliant, depending on my company

i learned history, so i could learn war,

Politics, to learn there is honour

in deceit

while Geography, taught me of dreams

I'll never capture, and mountains

I'll never climb, because of seas

I'll never sail

love taught me hurt, friends~betrayal

and time

taught me age

for the price of my youth

I've worn out my heart

with learning

but nothing more important

than what that night taught me

among the peace laden trees

so long ago beyond

the shores

of Lake Rebecca

Crazy In The Mountains

she's the woman of the crazy mountains

aptly named for an adopted daughter

the snows blow fierce around her tiny cabin

buried deep in season, while inside

bark and roots tea boil in heavy scent.

just a frosted window away,

the only friends remaining

fly branch to feeder,

she paints

these, and whatever else

may happen by, be they clouds,

sunshine's shadow on the peaks

or the fox deep in hunt

but this, no one sees as no one dare

the darkness playing in the pines

where the sentry crows stand

careful watch over wonder or reason

when she makes it to town, a birth wide

is given by fear masked as respect

by those who will whisper later

to shaking heads at the coffee shop

just after she's gone

her paintings, her jewelry, her carvings,

molasses and honey, are all sold by the man

at the trading post who knows well to turn a nickle

from the lunacy he quietly admires

but never admits

she never speaks when in town

and only quietly when alone.

just a nod or a note sufficing.

if a trace of smile lingers

in her plowed field of face

it is well guarded by the eyes

which long ago stopped looking

she may have gone to Berkeley

-for a year, may have swooned to

Janis at Woodstock, and somewhere

far beyond the reach of telling

there may be a child long ago run free

she no doubt was a child herself

in a world since forgotten

and who knows, there may even

have been ideals and a God

who pretended to understand

but now another spring has come

the snows melt and run

while her tattered laundry

flies wild in the breeze

welcoming the bluebirds come to nest

in the peace of her silence

she'll die here

and no one will listen

to the song that was never sung

from this woman

adopted by mountains too crazy

to turn her away

The Orchard

to the orchard i flew

famine to the feast

from the gate flew the troll

saying, eat as you please

but mind the caveat

some hold a poison

worse than many deaths

red ripe and delicious

were most of the apples

while others couldn't hide

their blemish

the latter i trusted

more than the former

but no matter, just the same

as only pretend to eat, did i

in truth, i took bow and quiver

shooting them all from the trees

to poison the worms that

poison the birds

yes, starve i will

but of all the deaths

mine, will be

the most honest

Texture

i don't need a new colour

this world's full of colour aplenty

~it's all part of the game

but the feel of fall leaves underfoot

July grass, heavy with dew to bare feet

an ethereal petal from the softest lavender flower

fresh off the bloom, falling softly

i've known steel girders and rusty bolts

brick upon brick, the sturdy fortress

i've been the white line down angry highways

the barb along wire, catching innocent fur

stamp and step, clickety clack

the cold of locks, the hardening

of bitter remembrance constructs

and muscles this iron tower

of pinioned solitude within

i need a new texture

layers of peaceful

gentle delight

the cool of a spring brook

ensconcing my upturned palm

a single snowflake finding rest

upon my shoulder

a light breeze from eminence,

that barely stirs

engineers need steel and mortar

blueprints, their bible

but me, the dreamer,

having fallen upon their bridge

hanging by tired grip

wishes to let go

hoping the softness will catch me

making me it's own,

taking me along

Where I'm Happiest

wherever i am,

mostly so,

i find

i am happiest

farthest

away

Truth Stripped Bare

you know, she said,

raising the knife

i really hate that song

barely taking notice

of the blood's first trickle,

she gave the look of one

having swallowed sour milk

when he asked,

how bout the movie?

finally, with time running out

and the game on the line,

he heaved one from half court

did you get a chance to read

that book I gave you?

this one wasn't even close

as the buzzer sounded

and the ball rolled to a stop

in the dark corner

this is why men fish secret holes

alone, along silent river banks

why women stare endlessly

out small kitchen windows

while drying dishes

already dry

it's why women kneel the dirt

in flower gardens

why men drink beer

in garages

why children

go outside to play

it isn't wrong

and it isn't right

just an inconvenient truth

the gentle lies

long ago spent

for the purchase

of another's soul

Carrie's Confectionery

The Sheriff doesn't like trouble in his town

watched too much TV with his old man

~thinks he's Matt Dillon

but has a splash of Barney Fife

when Zelda's Hideout, at the edge of town

got too rowdy, he slapped spur to hide, so to say,

and busted their ass good!

some guy fixes computers there now

The Silver Dollar on East Main gets by ok,

cuz they have some kid leave an envelope in the Sheriff's mailbox

every Thursday at midnight

but Corky's Tavern on Maple didn't fair so well

Corky said, "Fuck that shit!"

and went to the city council

unaware how well traveled the envelopes were

That's just the way it is, love it or leave it

or,

hide the tree in the forest

Carrie's Confectionery sits smack dab on Main Street

between the Fire Department and Post Office

across the alley, in the back, is Jack's Bait and Tackle.

and never mind that there ain't a fish to be caught for forty miles

and never mind that, how in the hell can anyone make a living

selling candy, fine linen, and used books.

what matters, is the hidden tunnel under the alley that leads

from Jack's to Carrie's. The one the bootlegger's dug way

back in the 20's. The one the Sheriff doesn't know

anything about.

oh, he strolls into Jack's now and then, jus cuz ya never know, and Jack

sells guns.

but he never goes into Carrie's. Barely gives the front window

a passing glance. Not that it matters.

all the action's in the deep basement that's been sound proofed.

the big stud poker game, the moonshine whiskey,

the bar you can smoke weed at,

the girls the Sheriff thinks are Jack's cousins who

live in the apartment above the bait shop,

the makeshift bedrooms where a person can sleep it off,

or get it on, before walking out Jack's front door in the morning,

tipping the hat to the Mayor.

it's all there to be had in Carrie's Confectionery,

where almost nothing ever sells

and the Sheriff never looks

A New Day

open yer eyes boy!

open them buggers wide

a new day's a dawnin

the sun is at the gate

foot on the block

waitin to blaze

~waiting for you

the storms of yesterday

but a remembrance

while the lazy wheat and

eager flowers in youth

mime happily to the wind

rise up! rise up!

let's be on our way

breaking the bonds of gravity

feet to the quick

high stepping eager hope

we can do it once again

if we can forget why we stopped

turn away from barkers and clowns

throw stardust pound to the penny

so many days have been stolen

too many a day surrendered, so

today, we'll turn this ship downwind

and just let er ride,

forgetting the chains

that stole our once

easy drift

Remembering You

in the stillness of the night

moon giving no quarter

i remember you through

the crystal pane

your skin smooth and warm

beneath my trembling touch

your warm breath whispering

love songs upon my neck

i see you now and then

along the highways i travel

and even feel you in the

fresh morning breeze

you've become the cool of the dew

the warmth of any fire's blaze

and a stranger's smile in the

afterglow of a glance returned

i sing to you

when the lyrics speak your name

always wondering

if you hear me

but it is in the stillness of the night

somewhere between frosted glass

and pregnant moons

where i remember you best

Lost In The Fog

i wear the night as London cloak

through fog heavy alleys upon

cobblestone brick, cold

and high collared

somewhere in this dark passage

is a door hiding the hearth

full of warmth, ethereal glow,

and rest, to the lonely of lonelies

this cloak i wear not by choice

but by reason of insanity

for what else could it be

to have already passed

so many doors of shelter

the morning will come

once again finding me

the desolate outcast

blinded by the dark

of the high collars

i insanely call comfort

Strangers to Friends

There are places, where broken dreams and broken hearts come together to mend.

Malcontents and wishful thinkers find cliffs to cast their hopes from, ponds to skip their thoughts, one, two-threefourfive across.

The sweet Georgia spring night was conjuring in dust whirls along late night streets, the street lamps yawned. It was Monday.

I felt the tug, and the dust whirl led the way.

The irony of Crowded House playing "Don't Dream It's over" could not be overlooked in the near empty lounge.

There was she, behind the bar doing the nails that had already been done. There was he, a local for sure with rehearsed banter.

He tanked the boredom with economy fuel

"Slow night"

She didn't look up, or waste words either.

"I've made three dollars"

There was a ridiculous poker game going on and i glanced the players.

The pretty young girl that would be a fashion designer until the funds ran out halfway to her dream.

The hotel manager from India who didn't give a shit about this Georgia hotel

The old man, and the big wampum liar telling his stories ten floors above the flag.

The piles of chips looked impressive, but held as much value as the liar's fables of being shot twice in the head in Iraq. Oh, men have been shot twice in the head in Iraq, but those men don't brag~they struggle to forget.

"I used to eat monkey brains in India," The liar tossed out like a baby throws its pacifier.

The man from India couldn't let this one slide.

"They don't eat monkey brains in India."

You have to love a terrible liar, they never let truth be a burden.

"Yes they do. They did where I was."

The facial ping pong was priceless as the manager fingered his cards.

"And where is it you were?"

The liar's bullet wounds were causing amnesia.

"I can't remember."

"Well," the man from India put forth. "Was it North, East, West, or South?"

The liar was stumbling badly, obviously over matched.

"Um, I can't remember, now."

The dark skinned manager was satisfied, nodded, and looked back to his cards.

I turned to the bartender and we quietly laughed together.

An hour ago, none of us knew the others. Three hours from now, we would all be hugging each other, saying goodnight, as the manager on wobbly legs told us he really had to close down as it was an hour past last call. He hugged everyone too.

In between, we swapped stories. Some true, some not-it didn't matter. We argued over music. We danced. The young failed fashioner wore my coat as we all went outside in a group to smoke. She and I smiled at each other like lovers, because that's what we needed.

The liar's stories grew ferociously and we pretended to believe him, because that's what he needed.

The old man and local boy went home, but three men and two women came in to take their place and we welcomed them like cousins to a reunion. They brought a dog, which quickly became our dog, too.

The bartender made seventy dollars in tips, I gave the pretty girl a half a pack of smokes and my lighter.

The liar said he was going to Arizona to fix global warming. We wished him well.

This is how it was on a Monday night in Georgia. A group of strangers that needed something, and friends willing to give it.

The Jester Has Retired

the king is dead

long live the king

young and old

rascals and noblemen

born royal, worthy

and wanting

i've played for them all

i've swallowed the sword

juggled the daggers

told jokes

until the only punchline

is me

why, i could make myself disappear

over here

and then

*poof*

reappear over there

a clap of the hands and off i'd run

all yellow bloomers

with black stars

and a hat full of tossles

to conceal my wares

pull a rabbit from a hat?

phtt! child's play to a jester

able to pull a hat from a rabbit's ass

and convince it's a crown

the Queen is dead

long reign the queen

but where is the jester?

and who now will amuse?

the jester is gone

and all of his tricks

hats for hooks

and bloomers to rags

he'll dance no more

the limp fangled jig

for the game has gone old

and the jester, out of jolly

shall bow no more

Losing My Religion

i sat upon the rocks at the edge of the sea

just a boy head full of dreams

all heart full of want, upon a tide

chartless of course

i rode a train across Thailand

thundering to a destination

i hoped to never reach

but this, my secret locked tight

the mountains loomed in the distance

i hoped to never lessen, for their peaks

once conquered, would be too much feast

for the want i craved tight fisted

the seagulls spoke my religion,

the sky cathedral to my claims

chimed hallelujah to the virgin spirit

lost in the wildflowers of the ruling horizon

the ridiculousness of youth

oblivious to wisdom past

knows no friend among man

nor enemy among gods

but time teaches our faults

through a jealous rage stamping

failure upon wistful dreams

while horizons paint a faded canvas

the loss of this immortality

through the consummation of time to self

resides in the fable of destination

and peaks without fire, too near

it is divorce now i seek

from the cruel master i've become

so free i may be, to forget what i've learned

and find my first love abandoned somewhere

among restless seagulls and aimless tides

We Are Not Fooled

ribbons and bows

buttons and baubles

everything wrapped neatly

for the Christmas parade

rainbows painted cream

in perfect arch

says all is well

fair winds to all dwellers

hot air balloons

red white and blue

sails to the mast

bright clean and flying

across placid seas

beneath it all

lies corruption

motives of murder

plans of deceit

the dagger of betrayal

life is not a decoration

on frosted birthday cake

nor the frills

on that pretty white blouse

life is the day after Christmas

the storm that shreds our sail

while the weakness hidden

deflates our balloon

this is not bad, it just is

and the knowing

of storms lurking danger

should not stop us

from taking our flight

against all odds

it's what makes us human

and animal, and alive

defining hope on bent dreams

decorated

by illogical desire

The Non Poet

i have been accused

wrongly and unfairly

some,

maybe one, maybe two

have labeled me a poet

out of kindness

i am no poet

have never aspired to be such

and will not serve if elected

i use not the words of a poet

because my heart is a bloody muscle

that i butcher every day

then leave for the flies

poetry is an art

where words are crafted

and woven to impress

i'll not play puppet master

to paint pretty the gore

bleeding from my soul

for such small gain

i write my thoughts, just as they fall

and if poetry they somehow

ridiculously and accidentally

appear to emulate

i hereby apologize

to all poets everywhere

so please, accuse no more

lest i believe the lies

and be cursed forever

only to be found

a sham, under scrutiny

i am not a poet

i am a butcher

and a poor one, at that

*****************

susan dey was in a movie, the title eludes me.

but she was on the steps talking with a boy about fucking.

the boy said, "don't you mean making love?"

she looked at him hard, then looked away before answering.

"you make love~i fuck"

and so it is my friends. You make love. I fuck

~rick

The Haunting Waters

the morning is clear, bright, and silent

as i walk the little road to the bridge

the deaf dog of no understanding walks

by my side, that being enough

from the bridge i look upstream

to the waters roiling down

then turn, to see them roll away

and never return

some days, after a heavy rain

the stream becomes a raging torrent

other times, after endless sunshine,

it barely trickles the timeless stone

today, it is what it should be, temperate

song to my soul

this land is ancient and unmoving

unwavering, stoic and strong

the morning is big in stillness

and it's boundaries speak

of passages beyond

high up on the ridge, light bleeds

through the bulwark of leafless trees

falling slowly down the hillside

spawn to an awakening

high above me, geese circle

searching for direction and

i watch them while the hawk

who so often has wondered of me

sits perched, and wonders some more

there is much this morning has to tell me

of life, and what is, and what surely

must be as it always has been

-but it's the waters i hear

soon the light will flood the valley

stirring the sleeping reality

into the convolution

i'll carry back up the road

but just now, it's the waters

which haunt me, like the winds

upon mountains

and the cry of the lone wolf

deep in the night

these are callings spiritual

which i've chased on earthen legs

only to be left behind

with the deaf dog

the wondering hawk

and the ghosting light

upon waters that haunt

my humanity