you might not even know who he is,
but he's a major league columnist
for the Grey Lady,
where I have never managed to land,
even though Dana Pangaro and I
pledged to meet up there
ten years after our high school graduation;
of course, at that time, me and Dana
were more interested in skirts and skiffs
that ledes and riffs on the latest political mess,
if it glimmered in the shade,
and shimmied in a dress,
we were all over it;
which is partly the explanation for why
thirty-eight years later,
that we are both doing other things
(although still skirt fans,
not so much on skiffs anymore);
so I read today that Nick had a big brush
with mortality recently:
a tumor on his right kidney,
and suddenly, he said, not much else
was important
but living some more;
I have been subscribing to that
credo for a while now,
for different reasons, but similar
enough, that I can relate:
kiss me now, not later,
tell me you love me today,
not tomorrow,
and let me go ahead and play,
and leave the sorrow
for another day,
maybe far away;
in your mind's eye,
the best camera going:
a big, brutish sort,
filled with heart and soul,
and damned well worth knowing,
who knew his way with words
and who was not afraid to let
words have their way,
who was always happy to arrive,
happier still to stay,
and always sad to leave,
always fearful of being a stray;
looking at that dark door,
and wishing it away,
wishing it away.
June 5, 2010.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
6/4/10
the hearts of angels and the instincts of toads
whisky,
however risky,
gives bourbon
its proof:
sublime, sipped slow,
it both reminds
and forgets
wasted youth;
if you want truth,
go find a history book,
these lines are only
a single look
at what has passed,
what did not get
gassed
at Auschvitz,
or Chosin,
or Baghdad;
slip on by,
you of the weak knee,
of the ready, erstwhile
apology,
since here you will find none:
this is Us, laid bare,
curses and blessings
all wrapped up into one,
foibles and follies,
and baby girls dressed up
like porcelain dollies,
and men made to stand tall
and die,
when they would rather have
simply laid with their women,
who still cry
for love taken from them;
oh pity, and reverence,
and all that they pretend,
will not accompany any one of us,
when we meet our end;
not goodness, nor mercy,
nor vile intent,
will capture our rapture
or forgive us our souls lent
to lust for power or
greed or any other base seed
that caused us to follow
and never to lead;
hindsight is well
acknowledged in Hell,
as it shows the sufferer
where avoidance
would have served him
to swell;
all of us, consumed,
on an enormous funeral pyre,
stripped of thought,
mystery, and desire;
we stand bleak,
unadorned, naked in soul,
left to seek, blind,
one last roll
of the eternal dice,
which garners nothing;
too much, though,
for some simple lines,
too much history,
for too little time;
let it stand, then,
however incomplete:
that what swallows us whole now,
is the result of our own feat;
we stand at eternity's solemn crossroads,
with hearts of angels,
and instincts of toads.
June 4, 2010.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
however risky,
gives bourbon
its proof:
sublime, sipped slow,
it both reminds
and forgets
wasted youth;
if you want truth,
go find a history book,
these lines are only
a single look
at what has passed,
what did not get
gassed
at Auschvitz,
or Chosin,
or Baghdad;
slip on by,
you of the weak knee,
of the ready, erstwhile
apology,
since here you will find none:
this is Us, laid bare,
curses and blessings
all wrapped up into one,
foibles and follies,
and baby girls dressed up
like porcelain dollies,
and men made to stand tall
and die,
when they would rather have
simply laid with their women,
who still cry
for love taken from them;
oh pity, and reverence,
and all that they pretend,
will not accompany any one of us,
when we meet our end;
not goodness, nor mercy,
nor vile intent,
will capture our rapture
or forgive us our souls lent
to lust for power or
greed or any other base seed
that caused us to follow
and never to lead;
hindsight is well
acknowledged in Hell,
as it shows the sufferer
where avoidance
would have served him
to swell;
all of us, consumed,
on an enormous funeral pyre,
stripped of thought,
mystery, and desire;
we stand bleak,
unadorned, naked in soul,
left to seek, blind,
one last roll
of the eternal dice,
which garners nothing;
too much, though,
for some simple lines,
too much history,
for too little time;
let it stand, then,
however incomplete:
that what swallows us whole now,
is the result of our own feat;
we stand at eternity's solemn crossroads,
with hearts of angels,
and instincts of toads.
June 4, 2010.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
6/2/10
saying it all
I might spend a lot of time,
jotting down a few lines,
plumbing love's depth,
maybe stick in some rhythm,
get your attention with
some fancy meter,
but mostly it's all the same:
lost, erased, torn up,
misplaced,
fed to the dog,
left in the wilderness on a log,
vanished late at night,
swallowed up in self-pity's fog,
you name it,
and I've framed it,
right then and there;
so imagine my surprise
this sunny morning,
when She said it all,
right into my eyes,
straight-up, with no warning:
"I have to go, in like
five or ten minutes,
but my heart will be with you
all day."
June 2, 2010, for the Wifey. Thanks, sweetie, for letting me steal a line from you for like the one-millionth time.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
jotting down a few lines,
plumbing love's depth,
maybe stick in some rhythm,
get your attention with
some fancy meter,
but mostly it's all the same:
lost, erased, torn up,
misplaced,
fed to the dog,
left in the wilderness on a log,
vanished late at night,
swallowed up in self-pity's fog,
you name it,
and I've framed it,
right then and there;
so imagine my surprise
this sunny morning,
when She said it all,
right into my eyes,
straight-up, with no warning:
"I have to go, in like
five or ten minutes,
but my heart will be with you
all day."
June 2, 2010, for the Wifey. Thanks, sweetie, for letting me steal a line from you for like the one-millionth time.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
6/1/10
A Few Minutes with Betty, Chapter 20: "This Is Mom's Friend, er, Shakespeare, and this Is Dad's Friend, er, Shakespeare"
(or, "Platinum Means Expensive, but Not as much as a Talking Piñata")
"Morning!"
"Hello, Betty, you golden goddess."
"That's me; although, my hair is more white than golden now; damn pool and sun."
"Hey, I like the idea of an older version of Betty; what's mom's number?"
"I didn't say gray; more like platinum."
"I guess platinum means expensive."
"Damn, skippy. And my mom is married to my weirdo dad."
"I know, that's why I thought I would fit right in; nobody would notice me."
"That's probably true."
"Well, there ya go. And you thought your family was strange up to now. Heh heh."
"They are."
"I can hear you now, Betty: 'Yeah, and so, get this: at her age, my mom takes a lover. Yes, I am telling you the truth! So anyway, she takes a lover, which is embarrassing enough, but then my dad takes one too. And the kicker of kickers? It's the same lover. The same person! A man. And a friend of mine! I kid you not.'"
"WTF! That is creepy on so many levels."
"See, mad skillz. So last night I wrote my next chapter for the novel, well the first third of it, and then outlined the rest of the chapter since I was on a roll with the action and didn't want to lose anything to my pillow overnight. So I am pretty happy that I finally have stuff down on paper, because by the weekend I had to have something going. I don't want to be the wet spot in the bed when it comes to my other six co-conspirators."
"Ew. Thanks for that visual."
"Oh calm down. And if you know where all the bus stops are, seems to me that you might have spent a little time riding the bus."
"Cute and true."
"So the chapter is called Sometimes Life Is Just a Little Too Real, and it features a murder, the aftermath of an explosion with dead bodies and body parts, a gun battle in the street, an unlikely hero, a fugitive from justice, the end of an extensive police sting operation, and a little mystery in the last line."
"Seems like a packed chapter."
"It is, but damn I am enjoying this project. And the elapsed time? About 30 minutes. It flies."
"Wow. That makes me want to write."
"Well, for some reason, with this chapter, unlike the other three, I spent a lot of time thinking before I wrote a word; I didn't even have the title until last night. The other three chapters, I guess, where more setup chapters, where this one is bringing stuff together, finding resolution, etc., so I have to write much more carefully, things have to fit with other things, etc. But it's going to be a great one when I'm done, hopefully tonight sometime. And we are up to 24 chapters, with at least 6 or so being written at this time."
"You all are really on a roll. Well done."
"Yes, I am pretty pleased. Plus, they are all so much damn fun to play with."
"Be right back, I need to go get something to eat."
"Okay."
"I'm back."
"Well that's fine; it's not as interesting as your front, but it does have its advantages."
"Ha ha, Shakespeare. As if."
"I remember years ago, seeing a woman somewhere, maybe the beach or a pool, and she had a tramp stamp, and it read: 'Exit Only, Buster.'"
"I use that as a running joke in my house. I'm still trying to find the time to get my belly button pierced."
"I imagine there must be some traffic collisions in that joint. I thought you already had it pierced."
"No. I did, then I got a new button."
"Ah, yes. Nip and tuck."
"My children think it's funny to punch me as hard as they can in my stomach since I can't feel it. I'm like a party game or something."
"A talking piñata."
"That's me."
"Well, I am going to run along and see if I can pound out a little more of the new chapter before I move out to the day's excitement. Talk to you later, Betty."
"No problem, I have work to do and errands to run. Good luck with the writing."
"Thanks, Betty. And don't forget to say hi to mom and dad. Heh heh."
"Stay away from my family, Shakespeare."
June 1, 2010.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
"Morning!"
"Hello, Betty, you golden goddess."
"That's me; although, my hair is more white than golden now; damn pool and sun."
"Hey, I like the idea of an older version of Betty; what's mom's number?"
"I didn't say gray; more like platinum."
"I guess platinum means expensive."
"Damn, skippy. And my mom is married to my weirdo dad."
"I know, that's why I thought I would fit right in; nobody would notice me."
"That's probably true."
"Well, there ya go. And you thought your family was strange up to now. Heh heh."
"They are."
"I can hear you now, Betty: 'Yeah, and so, get this: at her age, my mom takes a lover. Yes, I am telling you the truth! So anyway, she takes a lover, which is embarrassing enough, but then my dad takes one too. And the kicker of kickers? It's the same lover. The same person! A man. And a friend of mine! I kid you not.'"
"WTF! That is creepy on so many levels."
"See, mad skillz. So last night I wrote my next chapter for the novel, well the first third of it, and then outlined the rest of the chapter since I was on a roll with the action and didn't want to lose anything to my pillow overnight. So I am pretty happy that I finally have stuff down on paper, because by the weekend I had to have something going. I don't want to be the wet spot in the bed when it comes to my other six co-conspirators."
"Ew. Thanks for that visual."
"Oh calm down. And if you know where all the bus stops are, seems to me that you might have spent a little time riding the bus."
"Cute and true."
"So the chapter is called Sometimes Life Is Just a Little Too Real, and it features a murder, the aftermath of an explosion with dead bodies and body parts, a gun battle in the street, an unlikely hero, a fugitive from justice, the end of an extensive police sting operation, and a little mystery in the last line."
"Seems like a packed chapter."
"It is, but damn I am enjoying this project. And the elapsed time? About 30 minutes. It flies."
"Wow. That makes me want to write."
"Well, for some reason, with this chapter, unlike the other three, I spent a lot of time thinking before I wrote a word; I didn't even have the title until last night. The other three chapters, I guess, where more setup chapters, where this one is bringing stuff together, finding resolution, etc., so I have to write much more carefully, things have to fit with other things, etc. But it's going to be a great one when I'm done, hopefully tonight sometime. And we are up to 24 chapters, with at least 6 or so being written at this time."
"You all are really on a roll. Well done."
"Yes, I am pretty pleased. Plus, they are all so much damn fun to play with."
"Be right back, I need to go get something to eat."
"Okay."
"I'm back."
"Well that's fine; it's not as interesting as your front, but it does have its advantages."
"Ha ha, Shakespeare. As if."
"I remember years ago, seeing a woman somewhere, maybe the beach or a pool, and she had a tramp stamp, and it read: 'Exit Only, Buster.'"
"I use that as a running joke in my house. I'm still trying to find the time to get my belly button pierced."
"I imagine there must be some traffic collisions in that joint. I thought you already had it pierced."
"No. I did, then I got a new button."
"Ah, yes. Nip and tuck."
"My children think it's funny to punch me as hard as they can in my stomach since I can't feel it. I'm like a party game or something."
"A talking piñata."
"That's me."
"Well, I am going to run along and see if I can pound out a little more of the new chapter before I move out to the day's excitement. Talk to you later, Betty."
"No problem, I have work to do and errands to run. Good luck with the writing."
"Thanks, Betty. And don't forget to say hi to mom and dad. Heh heh."
"Stay away from my family, Shakespeare."
June 1, 2010.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
a full-blown canter
She tells me that after
all this time,
this time,
She's a little nervous,
as my breath catches,
and my heart
skips more than one beat;
She does not realize
Herself
as the best thing --
the brassiest ring --
ever to enter my orbit;
and I attempt to assauage
Her fears, to engage Her
in light-hearted banter,
as my heart breaks into
a full-blown canter.
May 30, 2010, for the Wifey.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
all this time,
this time,
She's a little nervous,
as my breath catches,
and my heart
skips more than one beat;
She does not realize
Herself
as the best thing --
the brassiest ring --
ever to enter my orbit;
and I attempt to assauage
Her fears, to engage Her
in light-hearted banter,
as my heart breaks into
a full-blown canter.
May 30, 2010, for the Wifey.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
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