no one

losing light,
he takes a chance,
and hurls one up high,
way above the lights:
a last chance at a
little romance;
and who knew,
but that little scamp
took flight,
into the night,
and now there is
nothing around,
but what was found:
which is perfect;
and what it is inside,
is quite the sight:
who gets to call an end
to this one?
no one.

October 24, 2009, for the Wifey.

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

forgive me

it just wouldn't do, merely
sexing you; it would be great,
of course, no regret, no remorse,
since you are da best, number one
on any man's list of requests,
but no, no, that shit is just not
gonna go, no way that it is gonna
flow; demeaning the gleaming
of you removes all the meaning
from what we have for all of our
teaming; so we have to find a bit
more space to retrace to the place
where we started, find out where
it was that our intentions parted,
look for what there was between
you and I that soared, that touched
the sky, and flowed, and glowed,
and let us both know that this love
was timeless, flawless, perfect:
something inevitable, quiet,
hidden, even circumspect;
a condition not subject to any
rendition, merely a state of being,
that gives us both the meaning,
of an all consuming love.

October 29, 2009, for the Wifey.

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



from within
and without:
take me, but
only if you leave
no doubt
that my daughters,
and Her,
will be spared this,
so they may live and love
long, without further disaster;
and if you will agree,
then seize me,
if however, you disagree,
prepare to meet me
at the Gates of Hell,
to do battle,
my hands strangling
your slimy, slippery throat,
until at last,
you succumb
to your sharp-eyed
student, your latest
of ill intent.

October 24, 2009.

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


eco echo ohce oce

the winds come,
this night,
deciding what will be
and what will have us
in the morning;
how much will be gone
and how little left
for us to live on,
move on,
be on,
be in,
pretend to win
against Nature's might,
cast down here,
through the night;
fools, we are,
to cast our hopes
on a distant star,
which next minute
could simply fade,
and leave life as we know it,
big time in the shade:
the mightiest forest,
laid flat,
no longer a glade,
a haven,
a respite,
but merely a blade
or two, of what originally
kept it;
we dance around the campfire,
and sing,
"we are those, who brought death
to everything."

October 24, 2009.

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


only yours

the liquid heat:
the silky, wet,
that is you,
is not enough, really;
it is only with
those chocolate-brown eyes,
los ojos café,
looking inside me,
where the dream
is realized:
and I am
all at once,
only yours.

October 24, 2009, for the Wifey, who is magnifico!

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


a cast character actor,
you were only following
the script,
what the writer was really
what would be otherwise
nondescript, lost,
tossed, forsaken:
love left bleeding, broken,
never taken,
something that you puzzle over
when you awaken,
long overwhelmed,
by what it was that left you
what had passed this way,
worrying about
what you would say,
to everyone who came
this way, today:
"it just overcame me,
it was a singularity,
taken flight, and I hope never
again to see it this night,"
as you paused, in repose,
but as everyone knows,
you left as you had arrived,
with your choices
already chose.

October 24, 2009.

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


"see you later"

the parting,
made no easier
by its repetition,
as we two return
to our respective conditions:
I turn left,
as she turns right,
both of us feeling the loss,
feeling bereft;
eyes locked,
hands clasped,
lips trembling,
we both wish
for some other ending,
even, perhaps one that is
with neither of us having
to bow to the relentless
flow of such a strong
as responsibility,
invading the cocoon
of two lovers' heated
those stolen hours
like pressed-flat flowers
in our memories,
in our multicolored stories,
of just over one day passed,
but one that will long last,
until union is reunion
and again our die is cast:
yet immutable,
fixed on some vernal point
on time's horizon,
one that only we two
will recognize
when it comes again;
when it comes again.

I go north,
as she goes south,
yet this love remains
so solidly in the center;
two lives, so disparate,
but two souls sent down
through time,
me to be hers,
and she to be mine;
some might laugh,
and cast it off as some cruel
trick that star-crossed minds play,
but they would be wrong
by more than half,
as we know, this day, that
this love of ours has tumbled
and tossed,
has been won and lost,
in more ways than
there have been days;
measures of treasures passed,
lost, ruptured, broken, cast
down long shadows of time,
when rocks were still young;
all of the many songs
that our hearts have sung,
cascade down upon us,
neither of us ever equipped
to say good-bye,
trapped in the valley that is
love's vast crater,
we can only wave,
and mutter,
"see you later."

October 23, 2009, for the Wifey. What a grand 26 hours!

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


another day no. 2

another day, where
I have successfully
resisted that urge
to gun it, and
cross the double-yellow
meeting a Mack
at 65 miles per hour;

another day, where
I have successfully
resisted the compulsion
to bitch-slap the old lady
ahead of me in the check-out line,
who insists on counting out
the exact change
for her small purchase;

another day, as I find myself
lodged in the line at the drive-up ATM,
where I managed to keep myself
from hurling a brick
through the window of
the car ahead of me,
who is taking forever;

another day, where
I manage to not throw
a shoe at the tv
when she puts on Fox News;

oh well,
there's always tomorrow.

October 20, 2009. From the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

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



on cold, wet, grey,
miserable days
like this one,
as you sip your tea
and browse
the Sunday Times,
and sit snug,
you should think of me,

because I will be thinking of you,

with each soggy footstep,
past each fetid dumpster,
down every forsaken alley,
for now and ever after.

October 18, 2009. From the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

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


the writing surface I am using right now
is a first edition paperback
of The Roominghouse Madrigals;
if you want one now,
they go for about sixty dollars online,
when you can find one;
sad, maybe, that Buk did
in 24 short years, what
I haven't done in 39,
give fruit.
Although, I did just talk
to my oldest daughter,
who is both beautiful and brilliant,
heart and soul where they should be,
and she turned 22 about 22 minutes ago,
and she is an example
of my very best work;
so no sixty-buck books,
but still,

October 18, 2009, for Carinda Elizabeth Pursley.

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


wrong day for the fall picnic,
as the sky empties its bladder
on everything and everyone,
and the gale-force wind
gives flight to the previously flightless:
yes, today, penguins and pigs
are set loose to soar
along with the fast food wrappers
and Dunkin Donuts cups;
the flotsam and jetsam
of the brave new century,
as we worry ourselves into cocoons,
hiding, hiding, hiding,
lest we be discovered by the wolf,
who looks very much like us;
in here, we are safe,
from this nasty weather
and that nasty wolf,
even though we find it increasingly
hard to move, to breathe,
and slowly, imperceptibly,
we simply atrophy.

October 18, 2009.

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

making do

the lone gull eyes me carefully --
I am no starfish, that's for sure;
just a pobrecito in the rain,
some strange creature, lost,
out of place, as sheets of rain
pelt the soggy grass that is now
more than ready for winter's sleep --
another inconvenience to avoid
as he pecks the soil for the inevitable
drowning worms --
not exactly fresh mackerel,
but they will have to do for this morning,
as the gale is inhospitable
to flight over the grey water of the harbor --
land-bound, as am I,
he does as I do,
in a gull sort of way,
he makes do,
I make do,
and we both exist that way.

October 18, 2009.

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


I've put them on ice,
so to speak,
since I am so in love with Her;
or at least I've tried:
they still work their
no matter where
I find myself --
the grocery store,
the drugstore,
at a meeting that I'm covering,
in a gift shop looking for
that perfect little thing
to tell Her that She means
everything to me,
walking down the street,
at the post office,
pumping gas,
loitering in front of
the Dollar Tree store,
sitting in the park
writing poems,
browsing the used books,
doing research at the library,
everywhere I go --
they work, without me even
and I glance up,
and see the smiles,
the guiles,
the wiles,
usually of the brown-eyed girls,
and I avert the killer electric blues
as quickly as I can,
since I am not theirs,
since I am Her man.

October 17, 2009.

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


to be

there are certainly many,
who would criticize us,
ostracize us,
defile us,
ridicule us,
judge us,
demean us,
laugh at us,
do all sorts of awful things
to debase us:
standing in their troughs
of rugged, serial,
dogged, visceral,
fuck them all:
they know nothing
of what this Love
is inured,
how down through Time,
it has been insured,
held, holstered,
kept, bolstered;
saved, sacrosanct,
not just a trophy,
stuffed and planked,
but a Love tested,
One down through
Time: tried, tread,
lived, led, started,
left, spent, wanted,
worshipped, lent,
simply meant
to be.

October 14, 2009, for the Wifey, and for all you judgers out there.

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


Sometimes, no hell, most of the times,
I wish that I had a name that I could put
on it, something that would tack it down,
take it more than just one turn around,
put me back to where I was, maybe even
on the ground, back when having You
around, just around, was the best thing
that there was that I had found, you and
me, bound to something that was bigger
and better than both of us, when all we
had to discuss was not all that much,
back when things were simpler, when
they were clearer, starker, and your
dimples were just dimples, and not the
parts that I hung my heart on, that made
me just speechless, that made me stop,
look, and listen, to what made my heart
stop, seek, flow, and glisten with the
discovery of you, what had been so
long part of us, what was true, even
eternal, down millennia, down all
time, You and me, and then I stop
myself, I put all those nameless, silly
worries back on the shelf, and I just
know, that what we know, that what
we show, well, it may be nameless,
but that is okay, because it is simply

October 14, 2009, for the Wifey.

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


the slap

the wind, last night,
delivering the sharp, cold
lover's rebuke
to my cheeks,
reminded me of
many pledges,
that I must keep,
vows serving
as hedges, that let me
sleep soundly
next to you,
knowing that
in motion,
and still,
I will always
be True,
as such is my Destiny:
with You.

October 13, 2009, for the Wifey.

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



a pound of bacon
for five bucks,

and the cashier tells me
"have a nice afternoon,"

and I think to myself,
"How? Your fucking bacon
cost me five bucks. I won't
be able to have a nice
afternoon for months"

and I didn't even buy
any fucking eggs

you see that little tiny speck of light,
way up there?

squint, if you have to,
I don't care
yeah, you see it,

dude, that's the bottom

and this little wonder here,
it's my pistol

I think I'm goin' back
for eggs.

October 11, 2009, from the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

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


when we had it out,
the other night,
I reminded you
of how you used to
whip me
with that
cat o' nine tails
when I was a boy

it was a rusty brown color

I will never forget it

and I learned much later
that you had inherited it
from my beloved
your mother;

and that changed
my memory of her:


and you denied it,
you looked me
right in the eye,
with your blind ones,
and lied about it

until I reminded you,
that one day,
when you came at me
with it in your hand,
I had grown bigger
than you,
and I snatched it away,
and ripped it into
useless little pieces

so no more revisions.

October 11, 2009.

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

remembrance instead

this Sunday morning
finds Ned's Point
quiet: an oddity,
virtually no wind
(not a good day for sailors),
but bright and sunny,
as autumnal urges
beckon gulls to sleep
standing up,
and the schools of mackerel
take a breather;
I sit at the table,
set just as it was,
with you perched atop,
legs crossed,
your smile entering me,
your laugh, breaking
the silence;
and though the day begs
quiet reflection,
I stick to
remembrance instead.

October 11, 2009, for the Wifey.

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



Picasso, genius that he was,
immortalized it,
in a simple line drawing
that he called "Femme"
that I used to own:
the female backside.

hells bells:
the ass of a woman,
so perfectly sculpted,
that Michelangelo
would have been

and I have many times
the fascination,
with no conclusion;
maybe it is merely
some Euclidean
dream sequence,
long, soft, sloping
and a fullness,
a richness,
that is almost
agrarian in its
its eroticity --
a mystery,
likely lost to
some history --
but still, its oval,
its perfect ellipses,
have drawn many
to ecstasy
upon its view;

I know of one
such precise
posterior, and I
saw it again,
just last month:
as I lifted
the bedsheet,
there it was --
crafted by
antics --
no matter,
it is the fuel,
the lifeblood,
the brain food,
of romantics
like me,
and it is
burned into
my retinas.

October 9, 2009, for the Wifey.

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


on the morrow

outside, the wind rages,
carrying her swirling petticoats,
dancing far above me,
a speck on a small rock,
far below;
and all that I do not know,
falls and flies,
to and fro, like
seemingly without purpose,
in this crazy, mixed-up circus,
that we call Life;
but tonight,
there is a silence
inside this room,
as your voice,
your laughter,
will not incandesce
this mess, this by-product
of generations
of largesse:
as I will sit, silently,
alone, wishing that
you were on the phone,
always peeking
around a corner or two,
just being the "You"
of me and You,
the one meant,
and lived, as
the one with a clear view
of a misty tomorrow,
the one with a rearview,
of unspeakable sorrow,
that we walked,
and so tonight,
you must give due
to what is your duty,
and I know that this must
be so, this is the price
that I pay to be low,
downunder, below the
radar, but only to go so
pledges, promises, vows,
loom large,
and we discharge our
our obviations,
as mere eliminations
of what we wish were
not part of our emulations;

and so You go there,
while I wait here,
and we will meet again,
on the morrow.

October 7, 2009, for the Wifey.

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



I was out today,
feeling powerful,
driving the PT,
sunny, blue sky,
about 65 degrees,
windows down,
shades on,
sunroof open,
Fun 107 blasting
Best I Ever Had,
and I was feeling
immortal again,
totally fucking
(hell, I even
considered, briefly,
the seat belt
except I knew
how strongly
You would
and I thought,
this is one of the
best gifts that
have given me:
17 again,
but with
38 years
of experience;
yeah, okay,
a real
peacock moment,
fine, guilty
as charged;
but seeing as how
low I found my heart
could go only
recently, and now
watching it clip clouds
as it cruises
the atmosphere,
well that is awesome
(an overused word,
but awe is the emotion),
so I wanted to jot down
a few lines to relate it,
and to say thanks
for falling in love with
me, for probably the
one thousandth time,
for making the climb,
snagging the line
as I cruised by,
only another soul,
tumbling through
the sky, and for being
so true after so many
soft and strong,
fearless and panicky,
deep and hilarious:
the song that my heart
sang centuries ago,
the One I know
will always find me,
inspire me,
believe in me,
and on whom I cast
eyes of adoration,
as I see you next to me,
uttering a simple command:

October 6, 2009, for the Wifey.

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


a little bit more

the image, burned so deeply into
my retinas, quite simply the most
divine of such that I have ever
known: my hands, holding your
hips, tight, with all my might,
keeping you down on the bed,
as your back arched, nearly taking
flight, all night, as I took you
into multiple delights, so tight,
that I could feel you becoming
a full-fledged sprite, a faerie
filled with light, but not quite
aire-borne, but so close, so very
close that you knew that it was
me that had brought you, and
though it was your magical
curfew, you lingered long
enough to give me just enough
to keep me coming back for
more, back to the silken beaches
of your shore, back to have just
a little bit more.

October 5, 2009, for the Wifey.

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



dreams dashed, hope crashed, no
survivors found, nothing much
left around the center of the
implosion, just a notion, that it
could have turned out so much
better, talent wasted, something
sweet and spicy tasted, even if
for such a short time, even if
more ridiculous than sublime,
even if I could have fooled
myself one more time that I
was still immortal, that I walked
the halls of time, surveying all
that was once mine, thinking
that all I held was fine, only to
take that headfirst dive into a
mortality that consumes all that
is alive, including me, once
again, setting me free to float in
eternity, still seeking to find all
that inhabited my mind for
centuries, for millennia, yeah,
yeah, yeah, baby, whatevah
really rocks ya, takes the socks
off ya, gets your groove workin,
sets free that monster in the
background that's lurkin, lets
that creature be the whole double
feature, puts it all in perspective,
leaves nothing to the imagination,
leaves nothing to be elective,
all mandatory, all the same old
sad story, that none of us get out
of this life alive, that love down
through eons may thrive, but not
enough for any one of us to live,
to survive, and so I will die yet
again, and forever and ever seek
you out, amen.

October 4, 2009, and no, it is not for You, or you, or you. It is for me.

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


since it is

the drained urns of all that I have
learned, all the sharp corners that
I have turned, do not have enough
volume to express my love for You,
my long-lost soulmate, tu, mujer:
my one-and-only certain fate
is to be forever in your arms,
immersed in your magnificent
charms, setting off smoke alarms,
up to my elbows in who
knows what, but all that you've
got, and then some; your
winsome looks, those quiet but
deadly hooks, and all that it
took to find you is more than
anything before, and anything
that I care to remind you of,
but let's just call it an eternal
love, since it is.

October 3, 2009, for the Wifey, who has me, lock, stock and barrel.

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

meant to be

if you could stay
I know that
would get
better and better:
if we could have
now, and ever
and ever,
we would be
so complete,
you and me,
so totally,
the way we
meant to be.

October 1, 2009, for the Wifey, who holds my heart for eternity.

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



Calmaté, mi amigo, I have never intended
to take anything, or anyone, away from
you, especially Her, on whom your whole
life has been built, to the hilt, and this is
true, es verdad, and you must know that
this flow, this thing that did pop up and
proceed to grow, well it was just as
unexpected as the fact that we elected a
black president, it was just sent to us, it
happened, dude, and to deny it would be
denying the servitude that lovers, real,
honest-to-God lovers, give to the love
that consumes them, that rules all that
they do, that makes them continue, move
along, live, and sing any old song, the
movement that separates them from the
dead and the dying, the quest, the vying,
the searching, the trying, the exploration,
the expiation, of a certain elation, of a
discovery of a recovery of a soul that I
loved so many thousands of years ago,
and for whom I have been searching all
this time, through the ridiculous and the
sublime, the One who was once mine, and
I must announce now that I have finally
found Her, and She is yours for most of
the time, but for a moment or two, She is
also mine; a difficult concept for anyone
to grasp, but believe me, my man, this
love has traveled so far down through
time, that I know that it is ours, Hers,
and mine; and it will be so until the end
of time.

September 30, 2009, for him.

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