She does not sweat,
She glistens;

She is not stinky,
She is aromatic;

She does not pee,
She tinkles;

She does not shit,
She poos;

She is not high maintenance,
She just needs affection;

She is not a gossip,
She just has information;

She is not unattainable,
She is just beyond your grasp;

She is not a diva,
She just has certain needs;

She is not your average woman,
She is magnificence.

September 29, 2009, for the Wifey, who is all of dat.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Temper-Tantrum Tuesday Condensed Edition.

What do you call the 47 million uninsured people who are suffering without adequate health insurance?

People, living breathing human beings with a right to live a normal life!


the best

gripping hips
with quiet power
for an hour

finding lips
in order to shower

kissing nips
just to get a rise
going until sunrise

sliding tongue
to get it done
but so slowly

is the best.

September 27, 2009, for the Wifey, who can have me anytime.

Copyright © Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

gale force

this is the sort of morning,
when even the gulls
want to be somewhere else:
wind at fifteen to twenty knots,
out of the northeast,
rain going sideways,
seas at two feet --
a classic play of Nature,
as She seeks to
wipe this place
off the map --

only poets and other fools
are out here today,
mumbling disconsolately
about victims and
prayers and dreams,
picked up by the gale,
and sent aloft,
or tipped sideways,
mast parallel to the water,

September 27, 2009.

Copyright © Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


Aracelis and Nino: A Love Story

I don't usually post works-in-progress, but I was feeling lazy, and not inspired enough to carry this through to a conclusion. So maybe you will like it. Next installment? Who knows?

"Fuck you, you lyin' bitch."

"Forget it, Nino, you know there is no chance of that train passing your way ever again."

"Fuck you with a rusty pipe, then, whatever. You might have been the worst lay ever, but it is not worth the heartbeats to Google it to be sure."

"Look, you asshole, I am just asking you to do the right thing. Is that so hard for you to comprehend?"

"Fuck you again, Aracelis, but this time with a bigger rusty pipe. God knows there's got to be plenty of room in there, in that thing."

"You are impossible."

"And impassible, bitch. So hang up and leave me the fuck alone."

"Look, motherfucker, these taxes are your obligation. Yours. And if you don't pay them, you will fuck up my life big time."

"Yeah, okay, so what's the downside?"

"The downside is that I file a lawsuit against your ass, dickwad. And extract it from you in the most painful way possible."

"Sorry, you did that shit already when we were married. I still can't believe that I ever put my dick in there with all those rats crawlin' around."

"Fuck you, you micro-dick asshole."

"Oh right, you want to negotiate, and that worn out thing you call a pussy is now on the table? Hey, ya know what? I am fucking leavin' the table as long as that skanky shit is sitting there. Buh-bye."

"No fuckin' way 'buh-bye' shithead. Imma come up there and serve you with the fuckin' papers myself."

"Celi, know this, and know it well: as I have said before, if I ever see you again, I will be forced to kill you, on sight. I will not be able to do otherwise. It is a pledge that I made with myself when you deserted me, and it cannot be broken. So if you are stupid enough to come, then you are ready to die, bitch. Okay?"

[to be continued]

September 28, 2009. Copyright © Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

see you later, again

how I didn't want to stick my hand
up through the sunroof of the PT
and sign "I love you"
just minutes ago;
it was just as hard
as ending a call,
and I unsuccessfully fought back tears,
as I successfully kept the car in my control;

and now I sit here, at Ned's Point,
reflecting, writing
on another glorious
36 hours with You,
happy that our actions
spoke to all our past words:
no hyperbole here;

and the sunlight on the waves
across the breadth of the harbor
vainly struggles
to match the illumination
that Your smile brings to my eyes,
who send it down
into my heart and soul;

what a gorgeous, melodious rapture
we two in this time did capture,
the concordance of timeless love,
captured in the knowing glance
of a well-orchestrated circumstance;

You back there, and me, back here,
until who knows when,
Oh My Love,
see you later, again.

September 26, 2009, for the Wifey, who is beyond compare.

Copyright © Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

yesterdays, passed

sleep came and went,
in and out, dreaming,
for both of us;
needing rest perhaps less
than not wanting
to sacrifice
any moments
to eyelids closed,
or voices not speaking,
or hands not entwined;
and then Your hand
found me,
as my hand found You,
and the rapture
that ensued
was imbued
with more than
simple ecstasy,
more than
You and me,
something that
will always
echo, long after
today's shadows
yesterdays, passed.

September 25, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


recast, at last

You scream when
Your boy surprises You,
and I imagine that it is instead
some kind of bug
that has arrived unannounced
to Your space;
and then,
as You sleep,
and I listen to the unique sounds
that are You,
at peace,
resting, nesting, testing
the limits of dreams,
the measure of schemes,
the way that Our Love gleams,
even hidden under those pillows,
the way time has a way of taking
all of the winnows to task,
seeking only what will last,
only what eternally matters,
and my resolve, and your desire,
are both left in tatters,
and Our Plan left disrobed,
is more than We can stand,
and We digress,
to a formalness,
that knows no past,
no history that can ever be cast,
as more than just two,
just Me and You,
at last.

September 23, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


August 28, 2009

what a day we had together
for the first time:
and you were mine,
and I was yours,
and on all fours;

and my hand,
gently nestled into
the small of your back,
felt so natural,
like it had resided there
for a million lifetimes;

it was almost more
than I could stand.

and cupping your booty,
with my own two hands:
and kissing you,
like there was no tomorrow,
was a dream realized,
that no one else
will understand;

and cooking for you,
making my best,
was a total joy,
laying out a feast
for such an honored guest;

and our private moments
shall remain such,
but they proved to us both
that this love is so very much,
it cannot be ignored,
it must be stoked, restored,
and left to boil,
for eternity:

for now, 44 hours before
your second visit,
I am taken to my core,
to who I am,
nothing more,
nothing less,
and I confess,
there is no trepidation,
only elation:

your magnificence,
the honor of your love,
makes useless
any resistance,
and only calls
for thankful glances

I continue to be
a very fortunate man.

September 22, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


to the extreme

the dew's patina
on the grass
sparkles like diamonds
nestled on a well-formed
golden bosom
of a woman whose eyes
are filled with promises kept,
whose sighs
empty wallets
and minds,
whose laugh
lights miracles,
comforts children,
assuages the old,
and always welcomes the new;
she walks spritely,
her body toned,
never languid,
beauty assured,
grace inured,
to the extreme.

September 20, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

nothing more #2

the 24 cumulus clouds
sit suspended in the air
just about an inch over
the horizon, as the morning's
lone gull glides in a
graceful arc over the lush
green carpet that Nature
has provided, and nearby
a windchime tinkles
goodness and sunshine,
as my consciousness
is filled with your image,
and my ears hear the
many wonderful sounds
that come from you,
and the waves slowly lap
the shore, time
stands still,
and I need
nothing more.

September 20, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

like you

no longer
subject to a review:
the image you saw
was all that I knew:
collar akilter,
fly left open;
but it is not for the show,
not for the hopin', no:
just a man,
left askew,
hopin' still,
for a woman
like you.

September 15, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


future days

I was gonna riff on some really cool shit
that my pal Ray wrote that I finally read
tonight, and then I thought well hell that
shit was too tight to let me in, so I better
have a Plan B to begin, and that was when
I remembered those jets filled with cheese,
queso, para mi compis, if you pleeeze, and
then I thought, what has this Midwestern
miscreant wrought, that I should be thinking
about aeroplanes filled with dairy, and I
tell you now it was damned well, downright
scary, thinkin about those flying bastards
filled with cow spooge, it was enough to
almost make me lose my grip on whatever
I had a grip on, oh, wait, baby, that was
you; sorry, my bad, since you are the best
that I ever have had, and that is no hyperbole,
that is just True to you, out of me; and so I
am not at all sure where this is going, but
I do know that what I will be showing to you,
in just four days, is nothing like some kind
of haze, it will be the portrait of future days.

September 19, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


many lifetimes from now

(I will never say goodbye to you,
and this you know,
as down the millennia,
we flow, and know, and grow;
but if I had to, for some reason,
if there were to be a final,
terminal season,
this is what I would say):

to not be
a kite flyer:
keep your
your Dreams,
close to the
where they
will wind up
not so scorched,
but none the drier;

love taken,
and sweet hearts
leave this little
rock shaken,
and Time rules
only if wakened;

Fealty is your
only name,
and lovelust,
not one bit of a
as this
strikes sure,
and true,
as True as I am
to You,
and the reverse:
so strong, that
I have no curse
strong enough
to declaim
all of the rest of
all that is simply
the same,
and adores you;

and Love?
just put it
in a basket,
a makeshift
on the top shelf,
so that it is
and no one
can touch it:

but you know
that it's there,
however briefly,

one day
you will take it
many lifetimes
from now.

mi amor eterno.

September 14, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.



out here, every other guy
has a big honkin'
pickup truck,
along with his workboots,
and his torso,
even the accountants,
and the pasty-faced boys
who pass themselves off
as men in the trades,
hidin' behind RayBan shades;

the posers of the sticks,
lookin' to pick up chicks,
but just as likely to wind up
at 2 a.m. with a palmetto,
as anything attached to a

I wonder how they pay
for their gas,
and still have enough
left over
to venture over near
the underpass
and manage to pay
for a piece of ass;

their dark, dank, secret,
torn little lives,
living in a basket
of thorns, they portend
the tragic circumstance
of yet unseen morns,
life impaled on their
charging horns, as they
gallop full bore toward
the goal of yore,

and they live, and breathe,
with so much to relieve,
that it spews from them
like blood from a butchered hog;

and they run, and they hide,
and they have slivers of glass
inside, and they do not know
where next to go;

and the torture of the treadmill
captures them whole,
and they turn into those
who are fit for the role,
and they stammer and sputter
and spittle flies from their lips,
but solace eludes them,
just past their fingertips;

and then one day,
they take all that pressurized rage,
and they light it on fire,
and then burst from the cage;

and the scenes that are left lingering,
cause all to start wondering,
where did these creatures come from,
though all should know,
as it is easy to show,
they came from the midst of us;

and I think for a moment
that I must be in the
Small Penis Capital of the World,
but it is so much more than that,
so much more.

September 15, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


what is within

I was feeling a bit feckless, well
truly, more than a little reckless,
when I started in on all of it,
like I ever really gave a shit to
all the whatever of it, but hey,
I was there, and I made whatever
out of whatever, and left them
sleepin' canines right where they
lay, because as we all know from
those stoopid greeting cards:
tomorrow is another day; well
no shit, really, tomorrow is another
day, fuck you, you silly, self-absorbed
little shit, you have not had the
occasion to walk a mile or even a
foot in my moccasins, so shut up,
and let me learn you a thing or two:
this life, from which no one leaves
alive, this life is just one that one
survives, forget thrives, this is just
a waystation on the way to the
assembly of the whole nation,
where sorrow is banned, across the
land, and where elation is not just
the relation between you and me,
it is the realization of people set
free, set free to love and be as they
choose to be, that is what this whole
chase is about, more about what is
within, than what is without.

September 14, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


the edge

suspended, dangling,
limbs akimbo, gangling,
in the New York City moments
before an orgasm,
looking down, sharply,
into the maw of a yawning chasm;
I stand here,
and the reality
of your majesty,
overwhelms me,
and feeling a little numb,
I succumb to the nascent reality
that I have been rendered mute,
but not deaf or dumb;
and I slide, I fairly glide
into a bliss in that abyss,
that passes for a thrill ride,
and on that sharp descent,
I abide, but only loosely,
as my arc takes me closely
to the burning center
of You, where I must enter,
and meet my destiny;
O my darling,
how Your spirit
captivates me,

September 13, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

the forever girl

I remain stunned
by the way you have
sometimes noisily,
sometimes quietly,
sat in the dense shadows
and intentionally, or not,
carved out a hollow,
and nestled in my heart:
beautiful, luminous,
and though the whispers
of daylight dreams
had always sung of your legend,
my rational mind
had unreasonably determined
that the myth of your kiss
was just a story that old men tell
when they have run out of whisky;
but here you are,
and I am no longer dreaming.

September 13, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

waiting at the turnstile

waiting at the turnstile,
standing just ahead of me in the queue,
She is You:
too good to be true,
You are so True, eternally,
the fealty sucks the breath
right out of me,
slaps me down on the ground,
like I am just a lost dog,
waiting to be found;
You are like the air,
known about,
and ever-present for Your share:
all around me,
this much I know,
but where You will stop,
where You will cease to grow,
this understanding
I will never know;
Oh, the dark nights
of love pressed tight,
and those sparkling days,
of golden skin, on display:
I want to go back to those
other days, those olden ways,
back when "I love you"
meant ten-thousand yeas;
I love You so much,
mi amor, siempre es verdad,
You are the best, the best
I have ever had.

September 12, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


any day

I spent a lot of the day today
in between more important things,
like work that I am paid for,
just reflecting on my life,
maybe just projecting
from the many open questions
that my current life proposes;

all the really bad stuff,
the mournful, the pitiful,
the contrite,
the I-wish-I-coulda,

and on balance,
(if I have any left
after being knocked off-kilter
49 thousand times),
I think I have done it pretty well,
this life;

I have tried, always strived,
to do better, be better, work harder,
than those that came before me,
to advance something,
bring it closer to a perfect life,
whatever the hell "perfect" is;
and amid all the pain, the sorrow,
the struggle, and the inevitable strife,
I may have succeeded:
I might have snared,
just what was needed;

there's probably 10 million regrets,
(maybe more, but just now I forget),
that I have locked down,
deep inside of me,
things that I still wish
had gone differently;

but You and me, baby,
not one iota
any different,
not one speck;
and though it may lead me
to the Gates of Hell,
with You gracefully on my arm,
well, that's okay,
You are worth that much,
and more, and more,
any day.

September 10, 2009, for the Wifey. P.S. Thank you, my sweetie, for giving me one of my bucket list wishes come true; once a month, if we can manage it, will do, it most certainly will do very nicely.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Talking to the kitchen table

Joe Wilson (R-SC) talking with him is less productive than talking to the kitchen table

I was recently accused of being anti-Christian by the Ed Wood of Star Trek critics for pointing out the stupidity of a tea-bagger who called a Jew a Nazi at a town hall meeting.

Apparently, in his warped mind pointing out the stupidity of tea-baggers who call Jews Nazis is calling the tea-baggers Nazis and therefore it calls the Christian minority in this country (he seems to believe over half the country is anti-Christian) Nazis.

Naturally I was too busy giggling over that logic to reply.

Then I got to witness a similar form of debate on House Floor. The Republican response to President Obama’s speech on Healthcare.

The President spoke about the Healthcare crisis in this country and how bipartisan efforts are being thwarted by people that don’t bring anything constructive to the table, just scream out bullshit in order to confuse and scare people. (I’m paraphrasing)

Joe Wilson (R-SC) delivered the republican response by yelling out “You Lie”.

Right now the country is in the biggest mess in my lifetime and in trying to move forward we have two camps those who are trying to fix the country (some of the ways are obviously debatable), and those who think the best course of action is to is to yell and scream and be cry-babies.

If you disagree with him he’ll cry

The Republicans, my apologies to Sen. Johnny Isakson (R-GA) and the few other sane Republicans out there who aren’t allowed to speak on Conservative talk shows, have adopted their debating style from 2-year olds. I wonder how long it will be before a Republican Senator uses the clever rebuttal of, “I’ll hold my breath until I turn blue”.

We’ve let the crybabies and whinners have their little temper tantrums, now it’s time to let the adults get to work.

I would suggest a good spanking for the crybabies and their corporate sponsors, but it appears one “family values” Republican has already taken on that mission:

Lawmaker Denies Affairs

When one side of a debate only rebuttal is yell at a Jew that he’s a Nazi then the only response is exactly what Barney Frank told her. "Ma'am, trying to have a conversation with you would be like trying to argue with a dining room table.” “I have no interest in doing it.”

Unlike the Healthcare Opponents this has a leg to stand on.


not at all

locked tight, snared, in the trap that you
set for me, unaware, I decide that I must
be free, and so I clamor, I stammer, I sputter,
but finally with most of me intact, I react
to the stifling smother of you, and I break
through, I get to see the real you, the ghoul
behind the mask of the loving fool, and I
just thank my lucky stars that I found out
who you really were, are, before you had
me, bound, no one else around to hear my
screams, my abandoned dreams, the words
I set down on paper about you, reams and
reams, so much more then than what it now
seems, but still, your will, stronger than I had
understood, and not very much for the good,
makes me glad that I left that neighborhood,
but my departure is well understood, well
taken, stirred, not shaken, and so the love
left may be forsaken, but it is love that is
not worth takin, not at all, baby, not at all.

September 7, 2009, for a number of them, but most notably, NOT for Her. Thank goodness for major exceptions to the rules.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


softly laughing

since the day that I brought
you here, you've become a fixture,
along with the thick, green grass,
the endless waves,
the blue sky that matches my eyes,
and the brown of the rich, moist soil
that matches yours;

I hear footsteps on the dirt road,
and I jerk my head around,
feigning being startled,
and for a Moment,
it is You, in the white dress,
stepping lightly toward me,
like a ballerina escaped from the troop,
quickly, deftly, quietly,
finding her way
into the arms of her love,
spinning, swirling, twirling:
eyes afire,
head back,
softly laughing.

September 6, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

weekend dads

I found sixty-one cents
under the picnic table at the park
this morning;
two quarters, a dime, and
a penny:
they were lying in the dirt
as the wind whipped around the sun,
curling around everything
from the northeast,
bringing out the kite-flyers,
and the weekend dads,
with their sad faces, pretending
to laugh with their small children,
while they quietly wished that
all their regrets would suddenly
be picked up by the wind
and sent aloft --
to be snagged in the top
of an old oak tree --
and never be felt again,
so they could be free.

September 6, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


you connect dots,
while I see spots;
yes, those are my heels,
up where my head should be,
but my condition,
you always observe
in all its transparency:
a willing captive,
always ready to remember
to forget the past
and all of the last regret,
I remain,
often clueless,
but always ready,
always faithful,
and always about
to submit.

September 5, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


like June

the one who bears the rose,
may not be the one
that you might have chose,
but in the center of all,
that is the one that you hold close,
the one that your heart knows,
the one that crinkles your nose,
that curls your pretty toes;
that's the one,
who makes you feel undone,
like you were awakened
too soon:
the one who makes Winter
feel like June.

September 5, 2009, for the Wifey, upon whom I cannot possibly heap enough praise, and love, and everything that one heaps upon such a majestic woman.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

your love

omnia mea mecum porto:

my knowledge is my greatest possession:

well, not really;

although I do not possess it,
it is a gift to me,
which I can liberally call

but my greatest possession
is the gift,
and the honor bestowed on me,
of your love.

September 5, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


Patsy Cline

listening to that amazing voice,
it's like being surrounded
by the Divine,
summoned, even by choice,
to passion, bounded
by nothing but a few musical notes:
left lingering,
waiting at the door,
waiting for something more,
another chance
at romance,
something worth
coming home for,
too rich to ignore,
a certain feeling
that even though your mind
is reeling,
there is that someone,
right around the corner:
"Just Out of Reach,"

September 4, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


nothing more, nothing less

courtesy of the full moon,
the clouds performed
a brief ballet for me,
fully costumed,
and adorned:
it spoke of your love for me,
although I had been
previously informed;
it sprang, and it leaped,
it was joyous,
and pure:
it tangled me up so much,
that I thought I needed a cure
for some dreadful condition
that impaired my volition,
but then all at once,
I realized that it was True Love,
nothing more, nothing less.

September 3, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

The Catspiracy is corrupting our youth

Tigger’s evil plan to rule the world starts by corrupting our youth.

TV aimed at kids is designed to lure them into the Catspiracy.

The biggest offenders are:

Which taught young girls that if you dress-up in skintight leopard outfits you can defeat the plans of any mad scientist. BTW: That actually does work, when I was hatching my scheme to destroy the world, my wife walked in wearing a skintight catsuit and I immediately forgot about my scheme.

2) Pepe LaPew’s friend with benefits: Penelope Pussycat

In the cartoon Penelope applies make-up (a white stripe down her back) to completely enamor poor Pepe, making him do things like wear perfume.

This teaches young girls that if they wear make-up and attractive clothes, men will do things (like shave and bathe and stuff) in order to be with them.

This is all part of the catspiracy, when combined with their plan to make women healthier, to make women dress in Cat Outfits and make-up and so men will not be able to say “No” to any evil demand they make.

A shocking result of this evil plan is seen below:


only tomorrow

there were some turns that I suppose
I should have taken, baby, some twists
that I should have followed, but it all
seemed so hollow, every bend, every
corner, it was all I could do to keep on
a path, a trail, that led me out of such
great travail, such unspeakable sadness,
and so I was more than a bit less of
what I started out to be, but I was
too shaken to learn, ready for some
undertaker's urn, so I just kept to
the straight and narrow, maybe a bit
too shallow, but I was one really
scared fellow, anything but mellow,
cocked and aimed, but without a
target, a sniper's worst nightmare,
something out there, somewhere,
but nothing to spot, anywhere,
but yet even as I was spooked, I
stayed cool, even though I was cooked,
right down to my marrow, and so I hope
that you will forgive me for being
less than I ought to be, but baby I
have tried to be uncontrived, to be
the man that I was meant to be, and
alive, which is far better off than dead,
and looking ahead, leaving behind all
that dread, I need you in order to
survive, I need you so that I can
strive for tomorrow, with no more
sorrow, my sweet baby, no more of
those worries, baby, never again, and
not now, only tomorrow.

September 2, 2009, for the Wifey, who always stands by me.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.