The World According to Cosmos

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  • Introducing the work of Easy Everet

    Introducing the work of Easy Everet

    Introducing the work of Easy Everet

    guest blog by Douglas Richard Colthurst

    fan story

    https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com/Easy Everet Poetry/ ‎

    Easy Everet is one of my favorite Fan Story Poets.  Here are some of his poems.  You can read the rest of his excellent poetry on Fan Story.com

    BIO

    I am a returning FanStortrian of dubious note but usually in key. I was a relatively well read member from late in 2005 until late in 2012. I left the site in 2012 because I lost my note pad and my mind within the same time-frame. But fortunately my pad was found in September of 2017 by my erudite and (he
    makes me say this) very hunky cat. Well, that is Buddy Boy’s story but there was a great deal of what appeared to be fine grains of mica sand on the outside cover and even in-between many of the inside pages. My hunch is Buddy Boy filched my pad, hid it under his litter box, and kept it there for six years. He was never a fan of easyeverett’s poetry and would always cover his ears when I read a poem
    I’d written out loud to Sue for evaluation. Now Sue says she has liked at least two or three of the two thousand poems I have scribbled over a long life but she is a kind and caring woman.
    Buddy, however, when speaking about my poems used words like: ‘verbose, eccentric, sophomoric, outside everybody’s box not just yours, borders on dilettantism, incomprehensible, and often asked me: “Why don’t you take some time and reconnect with what you seem to need…or maybe your friends on FS need or maybe what I need. You’re looking a little worse for the writing.”
    Buddy Boy swears he found my note pad inside a large volume of William Blake’s great poetic opus entitled
    “Paradise Lost” which he was rereading at the time. I left it at that. My wife insists my mind had escaped its cranial cover long before I thought it was lost. Like in 1970 when she took pity on a recovering 60’s summer of love child who she thought was really ‘far-out’ and since she had just fired the Catholic Church and was
    under a ‘lost my faith but found my hippie’ period, she married me. Not to go any deeper but because of a few things in my life that probably would never have been resolved or confronted, only buried by self-medicating with one or more of my many unique pharmaceutical and beverage combinations invented for…for swallowing. Sue saved my life for good or bad or worse and that is a simple fact and super example and perfect definition of love going both ways at the same time.

    During my first poetic journey through FanStory heaven, I achieved the acquired the Polar Bear status in 2006 and was, for me, rather well received by almost a dozen other writers and poets throughout the
    rest of my tenured service to FS. I returned to FS when I realized that if Sue was correct
    about my mind being missing since ’70, then it did not play a part in my exit from the site
    in 2012, just an overreaction to the emotional loss of my note pad. Below is an old profile which
    has too much bio and not enough about this site so skip it if you too have lost your mind or just got bored
    reading what you already have struggled to finish. Enjoy FanStory and especially the FanStorian scribes who truly respect the nature and beneficial purpose of artistic effort and endeavors. Good luck to all. easyeverett

    I am a formalist poet who tends toward the classic poetry of old but also have a true fondness for the beat
    poets of the fifties and early sixties.

    I write on any subject that pops or invades my mind. I review to improve the prose or poem I am reviewing.
    I utilize the cumulative knowledge gained by fifty years of writing for pleasure and as a professional
    medical researcher. I attended the Writer’s Workshop at the University of Iowa in Iowa City
    and after my return from S.E. Asia I graduated from Stanford University, located in Palo Alto
    California. I now concentrate on going to bed and getting up.

    easyeverett

    A 2024 Reminder

     

    when power proves the object of one’s lust
    abuse of power loses people’s trust.
    a wise man always leads from certainty,
    as grains of sand can stand an angry sea.when people are obliged to choose with care
    their choice creates a consequence they bear.
    an errant choice could bring catastrophe
    that threatens to displace democracy.the influence of personality
    becomes political reality,
    revealing no intrinsic skill to lead
    but finds the perfect kind of mind to feed.

    and when a candidate might elevate
    to win election to a higher state
    then all new actives must stand for review
    and that ensures no error will get through.
     

     

    No One There

     

    the world is running out of time
    and soon the losing bells will chime
    a fascist movement everywhere
    but no one was there to care.our leaders trade integrity
    for lies and false reality
    what was our down is now our up
    the saucer has become a cupthe politicians talk big talk
    but are afraid to walk the walk
    we lost what once we did believe
    that no one now cares to retrieve

    the truth has now become a lie
    and no one seems to question why
    our pride and honor flew away
    replaced on Insurrection day

    where have our moral standards gone
    along with righteous men who thought strong
    a country not of men but of laws
    now cheers to the neofascist cause

    this Madisonian democracy
    may soon be lost to history
    not from external foreign force
    but autocrats within of course

    the fascists first take over schools
    and then ban books that flaunt their rules
    then silence becomes manifest
    as protest too is laid to rest

    extremists say that history
    when taught has no validity
    so, they revise and reinvent
    as truth is twisted, lost, and bent

     

    Landing In Vietnam (1966)

    I felt the reverse thrusters kick in on the C-5 Galaxy transport
    and I awoke from a deep and needed sleep as the plane began
    its long descent into Cue San Air Base, Vietnam.

    I gazed out the small portal window to see below me the biggest swath of green I ever imagined existed on earth. If I did not know the purpose of my involuntary visitation to this green landscape, it would appear I was about to land in Eden or a close cousin to that place where man’s original sin began and now continues to flourish within a divided and war-weary land.

    I’m starting to believe third-world countries, at war, act like a magnet to the United States because it gives our politicians another chance to play the US as ‘great savior’ or ‘good shepherd’ or in 1950s tv western lingo, simply the “good guy” – Cheyenne Body style. But at that particular moment I was a long way from watching Clint Walker, as Cheyene Body, mosey across my tv screen while making me and most other men feel less a man than before we started watching that show and most women (I assume) agreeing that our feelings were right on target. I wondered if maybe Clint would take some time off from strutting his physical largess on tv and come over to this recently unknown place, now fighting an unknown war for an unknown reason (which is not unlike most fucking wars) for an unknown length of time and ply his Cheyene Body magic where the good guys, when identified, would be sure to win and nobody (like on tv back then) would ever die but maybe, just maybe, get minor wounds that never kept them out of next week’s heroic episode.

    I started thinking about other tv shows I would miss during my involuntary stay when I realized the plane had landed and I was rudely ordered out of the plane’s rear exit and into the suffocating heat and humidity of what then was the unfamiliar, little known country of Vietnam that over time would become the too well known country with shared history we just cannot forget or forgive or erase from our guilty consciousness and I, for one, hope we never do.

     

    We Are…

     

    We are the silent and banished,
    shadow lepers who walk among
    the unforgiving innocent with
    luminous sores.We are hieratic stones
    that mark a trail to divinity,
    unaware of alternative paths.

    We are the nightmare
    and cuirass of your
    terminal souls.

    We are the delicate,
    immortelles flowers
    of creation’s jewellery
    and dwell within
    the mouldering caverns
    of apocalyptic chaos.

    We reject gods because
    they reject our sacerdotal
    dominion over gods.

    We are the magical
    diseased who feed upon
    the blue-burn fire of stars.

    We are the watchers
    of the withered minds
    who try and quantify
    our grandiosity through
    their mediocrity.

    We are pre-eminent
    progeny of parsimonious
    preternatural wombs.

    We are magmatic, quantum
    lepton neutrinos of sub-atomic
    galaxies where altruistic Eros
    regenerates the living force of life.

    We are the you in us and the us in you.

    We are infinite truth.

    We are!

    Man’s Truth

     

    all wars we have fought
    all men we have shot
    creating a lifetime of histories
    reflected in mankind’s failed memories
    that achieved not one thing man sought
    yet defining man’s life of indecencies

    Not The Time Of Fire

     

    To live the longer life aspire
    to lengthen out the game.
    Yet life is not the time of fire
    but time left to the flame.Some ancient prophets lived long lives
    as did the passionate.
    Yet still not one of them survives
    within that congregate.To focus on eternity
    and journeys after death
    is but a sad fraternity
    awaiting their last breath.

    To focus on tomorrow’s dark,
    is one more second lost
    to every moment we don’t mark;
    and see how high the cost.

     

     

    Eternal Hate

     

     

    From the fierey depths of eternal hate

    to a wandering Roman, in the days of yore,

    the simplicity of our forseen fate

    is beheld within an evil core.

     

    The brooks flow with the blood of the past

    and the senseless things we do today,

    make the brooks flow and the blood last

    for life’s relived and the past shall stay.

     

    The immensity of mass destruction lives on

    yet the earth concedes to turn round the sun,

    though we remember those days yet gone

    bur forget the words of every one.

     

    Death upon an unseen hill

    placid happenings of yester year,

    this evil has us at its will

    yet, with confident madness,

    we have no fear.

     

     

     

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    MY POSTlatest post

     General Poetry posted December 11, 2022

     

    EASYEVERETT1

    I am a returning
    FanStortrian of
    dubious note but
    usually in key. I was
    a relatively well read
    member from late in
    2005 until late in 2012.
    I left the site in 2012 because
    I lost my note pad and
    my mind within – more…

    The Yin And Yang Of War

     

    My longest stay had been a year
    Of grinding time in lowest gear.
    Asylums say the stay today
    Is but three months then on your way.So please don’t ask me why oh why
    Do mad old ones choose youth to die?
    For I’ve learned not one single grain
    Insightful to my own insane.But madness dragged me back inside
    To share black air wrapped suicide’
    When my dear friend, though mad at best,
    Chose 42 for his last rest.

    Lifelong depression won the day
    That “black dog” stole his soul away.
    And then another friend from Nam
    When ten years home was one night gone.

    In Nam with pistol worn in sight
    He’d fly his Hueys to the fight
    To pluck up wounded stuck so dire
    Then fly too high for hostile fire.

    No matter when or where they fall,
    Their names belong upon the wall.
    How many Vets their balls still bent
    Died prone alone on cold cement?

    The naked act of will to kill
    Brought some men home for killin’ still,
    Like those who went with troubled souls
    Found napalm lies too full of holes.

    A gallant soldier fights till dead
    Too often for past lies he’s fed.
    Now who among you disagrees
    Wars fill our horrid histories.

    No matter where or what you do
    Some leaders find a war for you
    To fight until that war is done,
    A war thier lies had first begun.

    As we leave every century
    Still bleeding with hostility
    Can insights deep within the Yin
    Begin the Yang’s defeat of sin?

    Did I First Ride The Wind

     

    And once upon a journey made
    did I first ride the wind
    far from the scented verdant glade
    with mainsail fully trimmed.

    The salted sea is memory,
    my days of sail long passed,
    where death was bound by destiny
    to vacant shores so vast.

    I feel a surge of heat within
    this aged shell so cold;
    a mind and body born to win
    whose beauty has grown old.

    But once abundant youth did thrive
    on passion’s purest dreams
    where eros brought the truth alive
    as Siren’s sung its themes.

    A gift the gods cannot evade
    and I shall not rescind
    when once upon a journey made
    did I first ride the wind.

    Not On Her Best Night

     

     

     

     

    The Story:

    ragged faded

    lady hoarder,

    dumpster-diving

    diva boarder,

    dancin’ to the tune

    of her Dandelion Wine.

    milky-eyed maiden,

    peddles paper posies,

    masticating carnivore,

    toothless, useless whore.

    not on her best night!

    not anymore!

    acclimated alleyways,

    rodents without fear,

    muddle-minded Faustian ,

    soul redeeming martyr –

    thirty-seventh year.

    The Memories:

    broken boned beauty

    forged in her mind,

    conscientious duty

    lost to time.

    could have been

    a skater,

    rockefeller rink,

    sooner came later,

    locked and loaded link.

    pride of Arizona,

    class of sixty-one,

    a devotee of luna,

    loves her remy rum.

    many bitter winters,

    bitter winter winds,

    sliced her like a knife slice,

    bled her bone thin.

    The Story:

    gave away her gravity,

    east L.A.

    weighted down reality

    roles she plays.

    saddle-strapped sad hag

    gone insane,

    never gonna’ lose

    ’cause she’s never in the game.

    always aware where the

    light lays low to the ground

    livin’ in a clap-trap

    jingle-jangle town.

    runs for the shade

    when the sun goes down;

    safety in crazy,

    crazy shades and shadow

    hides her braided hair

    and her Royal golden crown.

    salts of lithium

    took away her name;

    doesn’t even know

    who the hell to blame.

    wants to be codified,

    once and for all,

    as prophets once prophesied –

    another Jackie O.

    with her hag-bag shop rags

    ready to go.

    time is always lazy for a lady goin’ crazy!!

    midnight, brain-drain, middle of the boulevard,

    ragged lady bag-hag screamin’ out her rage.

    The Lady Speaks:

    HEY YOU!

    up there with your pixilated palindromes,

    sippin’ fresh-dipped sewer juice

    and french champagne – you blue-blooded, high-borns,

    listen to the tale that I wail at you.

    i’m a sack-cloth, busted, shackled crusted scab,

    gonococcal wet-brain – slippin’ on the ledge

    of pain on pain, while livin’ on the edge

    in the whorin’ pourin’ rain. God died, I cried,

    now i’m lookin’ for some gain.

    leave your flush plush penthouse high-flying life;

    see your bleeding sister, see your bleeding wife.

    that’s right, once a wife, mother to your kids.

    your kids are gettin’ shifty, siftin’ on the street;

    private school, brittle-veined, maggot-tagged gods,

    waitin’ for the reaper with the universal odds.

    i’m brain-drained, insane, dissipated plain,

    a bucket full of truth even Jesus wouldn’t claim!

    so crucify your comfort, your gentrified name,

    then bring it to the street bitch let me see your shame

     

     

     

    Black Phantom Shadows

     

     

    black phantom shadows –
    (human beings)
    aromatic ghosts float
    but rarely are they seen

    check out the scent on the putrid, muted
    breeze – busted-up blood tragedy – many
    people trapped – flat in the middle of a Kafka dream

    people seem fine with the all night whine – the night sirens
    sound like Donizetti’s Borgeia in C – street trolls lose their
    funky-monkey mind – won’t listen to a melody in any other key

    maximize a siren to its highest boost –
    then play that wail in C – it soon will find a
    place to roost – as people love to listen to
    a loud melodic melody in that magic key

    mighty mister-dumpsters filled to brim tonight –
    as nighgtime dippers quickly dip and slip from sight
    while safer, hipper dippers dip at morning light

    but crack-head harlots sometimes skip the dip –
    the appetite is not in sight when smokin’ crack
    becomes a dieter’s delight

    old typewriterjpg
    old typewriterjpg

    little Lizzie crack-head takes a dive – in dumpster number nine –
    lunch in the city – be a pity not to dine – in a loaded dipsy-dumpster
    where the food tastes fine – but Lizzie leaned too far – she fell right in –
    but not a hungry harlot at the bottom of the bin -’cause squirmy little wormies
    ate Lizzie and her sin

    bright badge’s shine
    on a Saturday night
    uninformed authority
    on famine and blight
    people never look
    a beat cop in the eye
    no matter what the truth
    or street wise lie
    street people know
    the bureaucratic game
    are dirty little shake-downs
    of multitudinal shame
    you don’t talk to cops
    you don’t give your name
    you never let a cop
    be director of the game

    day to day gravity can cause great pain – on paralyzed,
    gutter-rutted people in the rain – better stand guard
    over precious cityways – Mammon’s dimmin’ down –
    seen its better days – when the harshest haze of poverty
    was hidden in the maze of interlocking alleyways where
    shrouded safe in darkness – the furry vermin plays

    Tangled Shadows

     

    To bleed all black or bleed all white
    are bitter breaths upon life’s trail,
    so, I bleed right between the light
    as tangled shadows fade to pale.My body wrapped in muslin grays
    (Confusing to the muse of light,)
    all curled like cotton-cloud bouquets
    to hide my rise of pure delight.

    We seek to feel the force of free
    (intuitive instruction sought);
    in compliment simplicity
    that rids the grid of complex thought.

    Words formed upon an empty sheet
    will soon become an anthem sung;
    refuse confusion’s new elite
    when jingle-jangle bells are rung.

    Seductions by reduction make
    a break for ultra-common place
    where wizards claim they are not fake
    but hide their thin-skinned, bitter face.

    Go out among the multitudes,
    absorb the truth imbued in man.
    Feel free to travel latitudes
    that stray away from your first plan.

    The muscled hustler finds his grooves
    within the sin of mighty mind,
    accepted though infected, proves
    the mighty mind is hard to find.

    Become a lover of the light,
    unwrap all straps around the truth.
    Praise purity of common sight,
    ignite it in your troubled youth.

    Our loss of liberty has made
    another perfect tragedy,
    where lazy, hazy, days of shade
    corrupted man’s reality.

    This bitter fit mythology
    incites until the light is lost;
    dissect each bit of piety,
    begin to finalize its cost.

    And here I leave you with good will
    until the song of love, we sing,
    will spark that spark inside man still
    and silver bells of peace shall ring.

    As Fascists Threaten Still

     

    The One who had the truth entombed
    resides inside each lie.
    The lie becomes the truth consumed
    through One truth born on high.The land turns dark though bright the light
    as all traditions die.
    Land once so rich now land of blight
    as fear pollutes the sky.

    Minds great in girth search out the worm,
    infectious like a plague,
    that makes all human tissues squirm:
    great minds can only beg.

    And as we lose democracy
    we also lose our will.
    The answer clear in history
    as fascists threaten still.

     

    Two Dream-Lovers

     

    Magnificent, her body soars in dreams,
    Long braided hair streams freely with the wind;
    Young Aphrodite rides night’s silver beams
    While raiment thin reveals white lambent skin.Erotic visions of seduction rise
    From this chimera of conduction’s heat
    And soon my head is filled with lustful cries
    Of two dream-lovers making love complete.

    Entwined we float above the sea below,
    Her rhythmic vigor vital in her hips
    As we sail over Isles of long ago;
    Dark eyes invite my mouth to greet her lips.

    When I awake I smell the briny air
    Enriched with scent of musk dream-lovers share.

     

    Another Broken Man

     

    now here I stand another broken man
    whose love of life laments obscurity.
    the product of ambition’s naive plan
    reached in and stole my soul’s integrity.I am the one who can’t become an us:
    no flesh–no blood–no break of fast to feed;
    a lustful trust once wrapped in omnibus,
    ground down to shallow graven slave in need.disgusted by how degredation days
    laid wasted on the taste of indiscreet;
    my soul the blackest hole from blacker ways,
    confronts chronicity of incomplete.

    my flesh is filled and frought with foul disease;
    offensive was my life to thine own eyes
    whose seen me sail both clean and filthy seas
    where faith can fill or empty bigotries.

    the story of a glory gone insane;
    a genius so sublime in youthful prime
    before the days communed with pure cocaine
    while they did steal the tick and tock of time.

    there is no way to spread a dreaded blame
    excused are those accused or left to find
    I say I loved to play the changing game;
    eclectic change to corners of my mind.

    certified a crazy kind of critter
    tested mess I do believe corrected
    bitter is a life of hazy glitter
    choices blurred by choices I neglected.

    I’m jonesin’ in the center of a city
    while waiting on my powdered China-white.
    my man must understand he’s dealin’ pity
    or sick I’m going to be throughout the night.

    I think I see my hero now is coming
    like a pimp he’s dressed in blackest leather
    tripping proud with lanky strides and humming
    tunes he writes but just can’t keep together.

    I’m watchin’ death come walkin’ straight at me
    and I don’t think or blink a catious eye
    but hand the Ferryman his feral fee:
    relieve and leave without a shout ‘goodbye.’

    my body broke and beaten now for certain;
    too much junk keeps suckin out my bones.
    I think I see the final call and curtain,
    the God I owe is callin’ in his loans.

    it was my hope someday I would connect
    dramatic angels with my own desires,
    but what should I, who did deny, expect?
    I touch too much the heat of madness fires.

    I sit inside the sacred Shaman ring,
    where apparitions dervish dance around
    but what the Shaman needs I could not bring;
    my last was lost my first was never found

    I traveled every twisted rut and road
    that zigs and zags across my mottled map
    and every road became an endless load
    and every stop became the same old trap.

    I’ve melllowed with the magic mountain mushroom
    with the mystic natives from Peru.
    made love in huts to ladies in full bloom
    while glitter ghosts played rock and roll Kazoo.

    and now I’m running full capacity
    while hoping I’m not heading for a fall
    but showing off my great alacrity
    before I hear the cry “last curtain call.”

    I hope to find a cheap discreet hotel,
    try kickin’ my addictions very quick
    while risin’ up and out of my own hell,
    affixed to such affliction makes one sick.

    then I will join a mighty minstrel show,
    while going up to greet the nearest star;
    find something true and new that I don’t know
    and see if I have time to raise the bar.

    my future vision of reality,
    infused by figment fire but never there –
    a future framed without validity
    or is there ever anyone aware?

    one way I know to beat the blues today
    just fire up Langston Hughes and boogie beat
    but I’m not breakin’ any news your way
    we know just when and where like minded meet.

    I slip and slide while runnin’ in my rut
    with that old monkey clinging to my back.
    I am the jester with a stuttered strut,
    who lives his life from pack to glassine pack.

    I guess it’s time to slip away and leave –
    been here and there so now I guess I’ll go
    and find some new creative ways to weave
    synaptic threads for changing what I know.

     

    End

  • guest blog by Douglas Richard Colthurst

    guest blog by Douglas Richard Colthurst

    Guest Blog by Douglas Richard Colthurst

    Cosmos Reading List 2022 Final Updates

    This is my first guest blog piece.  I got to know Douglas’s work through Fan Story.  I will be posting from time to time other guest posts from my Fan Story, Writing Com, and other writing groups.  I hope you enjoy his work as much as I have.

    Bio

    Douglas Richard Colthurst was born in 1955 on a farm in Cabery, a tiny town in central Illinois. Received a Bachelor’s in Biology from the University of Illinois at Urban-Champaign and a Doctorate in Dentistry from the University of Illinois at Chicago (I think?). 

published dentist with prison dentistry experience published poet and amateur painter novice wine sommelier comic book collector bilingual in English and German amazing father –  bowler, golfer, chef motorcycle license, and Harley owner

    You can contact him at

    Douglas Colthurst <colthurstdouglas74@gmail.com>
    colthurstdouglas@gmail.com>

    And see his portfolio at https://fanstory.com/myportfolio.jsp?userid=360707

    Victor Touche ? A 59-plus eight-year imposition on this planet. Who…. always wanted to slow down, explore the other side of his brain, and amount to something other than a paycheck. Of course, the other side of me would argue paycheck first you dolt, there’s time for the other later. Ah well, as Jackson Browne once said, something like I wake up every day to the great compromise. I have a lovely daughter of 21. (senior college, (oh me, oh my). Which fulfilled and completed my life to a degree I shall be ever grateful for. As all of you parents know. Love to cook. Wine. Wine Cellar at last. Harley Davidson. Rebel. Always did resent authority.

    Setting the scene.

    The Walk

    hate standing in lines. But there I was, happy as a clam, standing in line; for a fake diploma. (The real one came later by mail.) But it did represent the culmination of four years of pure hell, dental school. Some people didn’t seem to mind it. But for most of us, it was a long grind. One must study continuously. This is interrupted only by eating, sleeping, and lab work. Seriously. I am not inviting sympathy. One’s time is simply occupied until graduation. I finally learned of shortcuts that many students knew, but it was too late to use them. And I don’t think I would have anyway, but that is for another story; my dental school experiences.

    Since there was no time to assess my coming work situation, I graduated needing a job, housing, and money. My parents still lived in a rural town in central Illinois. They had seen an advertisement in the local paper for a dentist at Pontiac Maximum Security Prison. What? As in, what was I thinking? I know. I thought the same thing. I mean the same thing. But I could earn a little money, live with my parents, and buy a car. You know, start living.

    I interviewed and unfortunately got the job. Now, this was done by an “administrative company,” responsible for hiring all the healthcare professionals for Illinois’ prisons. This is pertinent because before, each dentist contracted with the state. This may not seem significant. It didn’t happen to me either. But, oh boy, was it ever. The only thing that matters in prison is power. Yeah, to be sure, the prisoners are in a stark Darwinian experiment. Yes, but all that matters to the guards is power. And to the multiple wardens. Think I exaggerate? Read on, gentle reader. So the dentist before me was there for some thirty years. And he had his self to answer to. I didn’t realize how irritated the wardens were with this setup. Petty? Absolutely. But we’re just getting started. Turns out there was a lot of built-up, pent-up resentment over the dental area not being under the direct control of the prison officer hierarchical system. Guess what? I wasn’t informed of all the myriad political land mines I was soon to step on. I firmly believe if I had listened only to the advice from my administrators, I wouldn’t be alive today.

    So I pull into the prototypical gravel parking lot at 7:30 AM. Pontiac was one of my old stomping grounds from high school. Quik’s was still there. Used to polish up the car or pick-up truck and drive around Quik’s. Over and over until we almost lost our minds. Cruisin’. Yep, we used to cruise Quik’s for hours. Good burgers. Probably not, but hey, we were teenagers. Big parking lot. Multiple lots for several businesses. All shut down after five or on weekends. Cruise, check out chicks. Repeat, ad infinitum. Once every hour or so, a new set of mounds bounced around. Gas was thirty cents a gallon. Gear heads. Pot heads. A little head now and then just to get by. Never got in trouble. Don’t know how.

    Oh yes, the Pontiac Prison gravel parking lot. Cool morning. The crunch of old familiar sounds as I stepped out onto the gravel. Almost brought a subconscious recognition of fear. The only time we heard those sounds, (of crunching gravel beneath our feet), was getting out of a car for a fight or a friend. I looked towards the prison.

    Simple barbed wire outer fence, with a small guard house. Grass lay after this for twenty feet or so, and then the administrative complex which housed everything, basically, except the prisoners. Long and rectangular, looked like a school. Ran the entire north side of the prison complex. Enter through glass doors and then proceed ten feet to the oldest, biggest, most intimidating steel gate that I had ever seen. Auguste Rodin’s “Gate of Hell,” without the ornament. Just swung grudgingly open momentarily, before slamming shut momentously on those huge groaning hinges. Shut. Silence, every time. For a moment, just made one reflect on the “end.” Period. Never have had quite the same feeling about gates since. Shudder, groan, goodbye is all they ever said.

    As I said, just stepped out onto the dewy morning gravel. A new day. A new life. Whoa there, cowboy, probably not what was said on the “inside,” eh? I have tried to tell people about this…” feeling” one notices emanating from Pontiac Prison. No one pays much mind until you’ll be going in. Ancient. Evil. Stark. Mania. Insanity. Loneliness. Despair. Hopelessness. A forever feel to these piled up, reeked up, soiled up rock confines. One feels the cement used is from Roman times. Filth, eking out of this place and contaminating you as you watched, mesmerized. Yes, I know. My assistant used to laugh at my exaggeration of these elements in the story of Pontiac. Till I took her there one day. Parked in the old gravel parking lot. Saw her laughs turn to that first recognition of fear.

    “Maybe we should go,” she said.

    “Why? We just got here. Come on, get out and take a look. Wanna go in?”

    She just shuddered and got back in the car. We talked about it later. She wasn’t laughing. She also felt that creeping nausea, that evil reach out to…
    Yep, that’s Pontiac alright…the parking lot.

    So, here I was on my first day. Boots on the gravel. Built like the proverbial “Brick …. House.” No, I’m not kidding. Thought I should mention this. It’s from dental school and the sick environments created there. But applies here too. Helps almost anytime, anyplace, as far as I can figure. Now, I wasn’t going in here to prove my manhood or fight or anything like that. Just the same, Darwinian is Darwinian. Went to the little gatehouse.

    “Hi,” the guard said. The guards get, and security in general gets, progressively surlier as one goes inside and/or their rank goes up. Not that the guards treated me badly, they didn’t.

    “Hi, uh, I’m new…”

    ” Dentist, aren’t you? Yes, I can see that.”

    He may not have even asked me for ID, after all, what were the chances some young punk would come here on the day the new dentist was, and falsely announce himself? Also, I don’t believe they ever searched for me. It was a courtesy. They may have once for a lockdown.

    “Just check in at administration. They’ll take it from there.”

    Walked up about twenty feet, went through the administrative-looking doors, and voila, instant prison life. Like switching on a light. Someone young, or white, stands out. Period. You better hope you’re standing out because you are NOT in prison blues. Just stopped to catch my breath.

    “Who you think you lookin’ at? Huh? You better get your pearly white back up the hall where it belongs. Fish.”

    “Ahem, me?”

    “Yea, YOU. Who the hell you think I talkin’ to?”

    A guard appears, “Alright Marcus, ain’t you s’posed to be somewhere? Best be gettin’ there.”

    Guard: “Can I help you, sir?”

    “Uh, yes, looking for administration?”

    “Healthcare or Prison?”

    “Healthcare.”

    “Right around that corner. You the new dentist?”

    “Yes, yes, that’s right.”

    As I rounded the corner I couldn’t help peeking into the room where the inmates made their phone calls or met with people and visitors. Just pure chaos. Boyfriend arguin’ with a girlfriend.

    “You know I didn’t. You tell Jackie his ass be mine.”

    And so on. And then I ran into that big fake smiling face I had seen so many times in the salesmen who frequented my father’s hardware store. The typical, seedy, untrustworthy, lyin’ when I can, and then some, the face of my immediate superior in the health administration. A job with little beginning and similar education, and soon representing nothing to me but a pain in the ass. I just wish I wasn’t always right on these matters.

    “Hello, you must be Victor.”

    “Uh, yes, you just interviewed me, remember?”

    “Oh, yes, of course, I do. We’re just excited to have you join us and start your career, aren’t you?”

    “Yes, about that. I don’t have my license back from the state yet. It’s just procedural, but don’t you think I should have it?”

    “Oh, don’t worry about it. You’re under our malpractice umbrella.”

    Now, at this time, I was so naive, I thought if he says so, it must be alright. Fortunately, my license arrived that week and all was well.

    “I think all your paperwork has been signed. Now, do you remember where the dental clinic is?”

    “Sure.” I kind of half thought to myself.

    “Ok, already? Here we go.”

    He walks me back down the hallway, where this other prisoner is now back again looking at me with defiance. Then turns right to the “gate.” Tells the guard to open it, this is the new Doc. As I’m still travailing the length of the door upwards with my eyes, I vaguely recognize…

    “Do you need anything else?”

    I felt like I was just ready to go under anesthesia. Dreamlike. Then the guard slammed the ton gate closed and my world reverberated. Boom. Unimaginable stopping-retaining power. I shuddered for a moment. Was just going to say something to the guard when I noticed he was on the other side of the gate. I stumbled a little on the interior cement steps then caught my balance. Turned around into the sun. 8:15 AM. The yard. Full of prisoners mowing, clipping, hoeing, scything, (I kid you not) the grass. Maybe two or three hundred of them.

    ALL came to a dead stillness. Not a sound. Not a twitch of a muscle. Uh-huh? Well, this was a bad decision and I turned back for the gate. The guard just smiled. Ok, ahem…ahem, ahem. Wasn’t ready for this today. Just a simple little two-block walk to the dental clinic, through these boys. Now, you may think what you like, but every man knows intrinsically what’s going down here. I had NO doubts. Ladies, you’ll just have to believe me, there are certain moments in a man’s life that cannot be misinterpreted.

    Besides, I still had Ronnie R., in the tower to protect me. Yes, sir, he would shoot down any gang member trying to do me bad. If he got permission to load his gun. If he wasn’t looking the other way on purpose. Ronnie would level that gun and shoot a gang member to save me. Hahaha. Yes, it was a pretty good joke, on me. Ronnie would no more do this than…I don’t know what. He works there. Hello. Even if he quit that day, there would be a contract out on the street for him to be dead. And the best part about it was I knew Ronnie, from high school. Yep, he was our local drug dealer and all-around Charlie Manson look-alike. (And if you need a psychiatrist to tell you Charlie Manson’s crazy, you might as well ask your priest if it’s time for an affair.) Yes, sir, I was…screwed and tattooed.

    So I took a deep breath, let it out, took my Goddamned testosterone Superman pill, and started to walk a walk, I would remember for a very long time. See, this was about not showing fear. Believe me, ladies, I know what I say. These men could easily kill me, beat me, etc. But that wasn’t it now. Now was to see if the boy could walk the walk. Remember, I told you I was built like a brick shit house. And thank God for me, psychologically at least. These guys hadn’t moved a muscle since I came in. Some on the sidewalks. Some are on the grass. Leaning on hoes. Foot in my way. Chest in my way. You get it. Oh, by the way, the game is played like this: Must stay on the sidewalk. That’s where one would normally walk. Walking around or in the grass is a big mistake. Of course, walking into someone is a big mistake also. Therein lies the crux.

    I walk down the few remaining steps to the yard. No movement but the eyes. They follow me. Test me. Judge me. Dare me. I come up to the first man who is in my way, partly, on the sidewalk. I’m getting pissed off. This helps me. I know where I am, but this intimidating, bully-stuff never set well with me. So, I mumble an excuse me, and do a combo go around (a little), push him away,(a little), and stare at him, (a little.) He says nothing, but there is no retaliation. This goes on in several similar confrontations, but mostly “eye fu..ing” as they say. Although one guy just had to not move and I was forced to push a little more than I wanted. You don’t push as much as take your shoulder and bump him out of the way. I thought things had been going well. One block-two hours. It seemed. Then this guy, and I thought there would be a little trouble. (uh, yeah…I accidentally knocked him over), (oh, BTW, that’s a no-no).

    But who should come to my rescue at that opportune moment? Ronnie R? No, even better. The cell blocks were just huge. All cement. Facing the yard, all one could see was oblong filth. The one I currently was in front of was like that. Complete silence still. Then a BOOMING BIG BLACK VOICE rang out from the empty cement cell block…

    “Hey, hey…I know what you need boy. (Just reverberating and booming in the silence.) You need someone that’s been locked up for a LONG time. Hey, hey.”

    Oh yeah, that just made my cracker-ass day. Then all hell broke loose. Everybody cat-callin’. Whistlin’ what a nice ass I had. You get it. To the clinic. Everybody was laughin’ now.

    Uh-huh? First-day jitters? Tell me about it.

    Casablanca

    And you flick another ash-
    mesmerized,
    her stockings pass.

    Stockings so seemed
    hands in your hair,
    tears…
    not really there.

    Shoes
    just for you…

    Hmm, perhaps
    another glass,
    another year,
    another lass.

    The memory,
    alive again…
    another chance-

    hands in your hair,
    you flick another ash.

    Jimmy Keane

    Played professional football,
    the forties, our beloved Bears.
    Big bear, big hands.

    Sweet, broke man.
    Not broken,
    just broke.

    Entertaining.
    Stories…
    oh, the stories he could tell.

    Best “hrmmph” I ever heard.

    Charm-when he wanted to-
    I’ve never seen better.
    Golf hustler,
    big, life-filled laugh.

    Truly, a man’s man.

    Memories-
    oh, to access them.
    He drifted in and out
    of memories, reality,
    at the end.

    Random brain perfusion?
    Dilaudid induced delusion?

    We all have perfect memory.
    Of this, I’m sure-
    just can’t access it.
    But we will,
    someday we will.

    Dilaudid,

    the dear medical establishment,
    induces random, multiple
    memory trails-not delusions.

    The patient actually gets
    a whiff of…
    eternity,
    peace,
    ecstasy.

    He reached out for me,
    tubes an’ all-
    my little hand
    and his big paw.

    Let me part
    with a little something
    we men, can’t admit.
    I loved this man.

    Try holding the hand
    of someone passing.
    It doesn’t get
    any more real,
    than this.

    The ignorance,
    lifted from your shoulders,
    is almost worth…
    What you miss

    Whenever you said something to him, or reprimanded him,
    (ha ha), all he ever said was-” Ok, Coach.”

    placed in storage

    Closet Bound

     

    Before the full length mirror
    stands the reflection of
    pressing matters.

    Parasitic woman
    presses her dresses,
    lays them in boxes
    alongside her letters.

    Pretty, pretty closets
    stacked full of dreams,
    and the empathy she lacks.

    Sees her future
    much clearer
    through crystal
    liquored glass.

    Parasitic woman
    presses her dresses,
    leaving her messes
    lay.

    From yesterday and before,
    it’s been forever for
    an arm to reach
    the children
    and not the glass.

    Languid mirror
    of narcissistic visions
    without means…

    Still, she presses on.

    The End

     

     

     

     

     

    Innocence must pass

    An Easel and A Quay

     

    My measured stroke seems smaller,
    but quicker by same measure.

    An innocence long squandered,
    as innocence must be.

    Unrolled another canvas
    and sat a new study.

    I thought perhaps she liked me,
    her legs she moved with ease.

    I began,
    but quickly saddened.
    Still, I painted
    the picture bound to be.

    An innocence so brilliant,
    colours that touched her,
    my hand just seemed to know.

    I paid her rather quickly,
    she asked if she could see.

    I smiled but said, “Come later,
    much later in the day.”

    Brushes against the easel…
    the paint had its way.

    Her innocence, those colours,
    splattered across the canvas,
    and tracked the quay.

    I walk a path familiar

    as I see her up the way.,

     

    This piece is fictional.
    Figurative, and fumbling. LOL