Erm, ok. what is this crap in my blog?


no car crash, no orphan, no suicide, no mourning, no cat-o-nine tails

I remember once,
when I think I must have been
about 10,
and me and my daddy and my mother
were off
some stupid camping trip
probably Maine or Canada,
and we were in the '59 Plymouth,
a big-ass boat of a station wagon,
and I was in the backseat;

and they had been arguing
about who knows what,
and screaming at each other
as loud as they could,
and daddy came to stop sign,
and he said,
"Ricky, get out of the car."

and my mother screamed,
"No, Ricky don't move!
If you get out of the car,
he will drive this car into
those trees, and kill us,
and then you will be an

and so, as I would do so many times
in my life, I took my mother's advice,
and I stayed put,
and life, somehow
went on;

and I remember another time,
when I was about 13 or 14,
and although I don't remember
the cause,
I remember my mother being
on the phone with my daddy,
who was working at the time
on Nantucket Island,
as she and I stood in the living room,
me, with a carving knife,
ten inches long,
pointed at my belly;

somehow, daddy talked me down
from that ledge,
and life went on;

I remember,
just a year or so ago,
how I reminded my mother
about her use
of the cat-o-nine tails
(for those of you unfamiliar,
it is a leather strop, with nine
separate tines, to inflict
maximum damage)
and she said,
"I do not remember any such thing."
and it was then, that I realized
that she had inherited it
from my Nana, whom I loved,
and that realization
nearly made my head explode:
all that I had ever known,
relied upon,
felt secure with,
was a lie;

and so,
a nitwit,
soon to be forgotten poet,
with a story but not much talent,
had his early years formed.

October 23, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


no address

it's funny
it's one of those
that you nearly ever
think about
until it lands at
your feet;

that most folk
seldom meet;

and when it
touches down,
it grows --
so large,
that it removes the sun
from your sight --
no matter how strong
you think you are,
it fills you with
the biggest fright
of your life;

these days,
it is becoming a
no where to go,
even if you have a
temporary sanctuary,
as I fortunately do;

no address?
no work, no place to plug in
the computer;

no address?
no license plates,
no where to send the renewal;

no address?
no car insurance,
no where it is registered;

no address?
no driver's license;

no address?
no food stamps,
no where to send them;

no address?
no voting,
you are not registered anywhere;

no address?
no bank account,
no where to send the statements;

no address?
no mobile phone,
no where to send the statements;

no address?
no health insurance,
no where to communicate via snail mail;

no address?
no subsidized housing,
no where to inspect when your turn comes up;

no address?
no place to be,
to just be;

no address?
no hope,
only an ending;

so when you next
lay your head on your pillow,
remind yourself
of how fortunate you are,
with an address.

October 22, 2010.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved. Those rights survive me.


and let me know

I have trouble, these days,
remembering all the times
that you made fun of me;
it's so much easier
to remember all the times
that you made love to me,
and how you held me off
on our first date:
"Not tonight, sweetie"
was all you said, as you
straightened your skirt
and adjusted your blouse;
I also remember
how magnificently
I was, the morning that
you deserted me,
loading all the stuff
that you wanted
into that U-Haul truck
that was so poorly parked
in the driveway;
you stole five years
of my life,
and all that I had achieved,
and left me homeless,
alone, and bereft,
and even my so-called friends
could not save me;
my first wife drove me
from my zip code,
and you went one step further,
and drove me from my state;
what a cruel fate:
sent home to mom,
tail between my legs,
and then some;
and now, another curtain rises,
certain to close,
without many surprises,
and still, my mind
surrounds all the good times,
and I am mystified
at how life goes like that,
since I still feel like
I ought to hate you;
go figure,
and let me know.

October 3, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.