- t.k. splake

SUGAR COOKIE             rare sweet tooth trekking snack passenger side seat, snugged away in camera tote already packed full with film, air spray, extra lens caps, cable release, yesterday's surprise grab, grocery cart full of day old, marked down bakery specials, lemon colored cellophane wrapping mysteriously appealing to the old alky graybeard palate long grown used to bitter eats tasting richer,             turning early morning tranny miles, first dawn lighting the far northern horizon, brain skull cavvvvvvvvvvvvv musing over passage read yesterday from socrates, "men must examine themselves and believe what their own minds and souls tell them, all else is shadows,"             late autumn day hike and climbing in the CLIFFS, taking emotional pain of a love affair ended disastrously to the summit, hoping to leave a small amount of psychic hurt behind before returning to the bardic loft over the art gallery in calumet,             still deeply in love with young woman poet, sad lady feeding her black bad brain chem depression with cheap vodka and marijuana euphoric escapes rather then pursue modern medicine and therapy, shallow femme-fille continuously prattling empty isms, heavy dusty philosphic dogmas, dopester rituals, failing to understand rilke wisdom, "to name a thing is to kill it," and the basic truth that knowing something completely makes it dead,             her young teenage daughter grown loud mouth and mtv bratty, cd player continuously plugged in ear, heavy metal music playing at killer decibels, peaking force l0 punishment on her brain, jazzed on shit "pop culture," living in white trash poverty, unaware of richer real life experiences beyond after school, weekend television,             off and down the trail, gun metal snow clouds rapidly scudding across the far horizon, winter's first blizzardary forming in deep canadian interiors ready to scream down out of the north, arctic punishment for the keweeenaw, few remaining leaves, frowsty scent, warped dull metallic hues, determined survivors like the old gray bard hanging on,             rounding first curve, surprising young fawn, bounding away, vanishing in dense pine needle copse behind huge granite dolmans and crowlech boulders past glaciers left behind, baby deer born during late fall second rut, survival chances nada,             hiking, climbing along side small CLIFFS stream, light watery murmurs spilling over stones, low ripplings making early morning poetry, soon covered with "long white" icy blanket, long winter hibernation, waiting later spring "ice out" torrents raging down the mountain, carrying ghosts of old "clifton" mining community past, stream awash with forgotten cornish deep shaft miners, wives perishing in childbirth labors, infant babes lost to burning thirsts, fiery diptheria epidemics, once loud BLOOD PRAYERS now faint, distant whispers,             thinking back to my early morning coffee drinking regulars, john's family restaurant and complete calumet cafe, dave, retired insurance exec working parttime at wal mart, raking leaves, mowing grass on days off just for something to do, casper the friendly mailman, constantly complaining of assorted aches and pains, yet refusing disability, steady checks and freedom, bruce bitching like an old lady over his car door not working, endless motormouth mutterings like bored young kid's whine, "there's nothing to do," waitresses mary and patty pressing menu "good mornings," sore arches, ankles and feet, hurrying home, taking care of grandchildren after work and weekends, cool acting frank, becoming stay-at-home recluse, whiskey sipping away social security pays, sweating over PLAYBOY, HUSTLER nudes, young television actress flesh, 73-year old ed, constantly describing his triple-bypass heart surgery, nervous edginess, acting afraid he'll die any second,             all agreed that my trekkings with cameras, tripod, film, and daypack tote looking for old copper mining smelter smokestacks reclaimed by the forest wilderness "nuts," sad souls unable to recognize that the "search" gives real proof and meaning to life,             gray and balding senior men, surviving the laissez-faire money-market chase, somewhere in life losing the ability to risk pursuing wildass dreams, now unable to quit the dollar addiction, possessing money, big house, new car, clothes, not knowing what else to do, still consuming, collecting, stamps, coins, ceramics, sports logo stuff, depression glass bowls and mugs, "art deco" objects, fleeting moments feeling in control before chaos reigns, suddenly finding themselves double-diapered, dying day by meaningless day, empty bags of bones in some nursing home hell, never smelling, tasting aromas of "con brio,"             reaching CLIFFS summit, bending in, hiking down old path past huge lightning scarred tree, visiting clifton cemetery lost long ago to advancing forest, anciet headstones, solemn depositions, friezes moss covered, stained by lichens, discolored by rain, still visible folded angel wings, clasped hands reaching toward heaven as if caught in mid-lament, recalling a poem read recently about a mother stricken with polio, her daughter describing the "grace of childhood strength when she ran," like my hoops playing contests, when still young body skying higher, grabbing a rebound and hitting the outlet before feet touching gym floor, boyhood times before ace bandages, bone chips, floating ligaments, somehow, mysteriously becoming a poet, now doing frequent contests with the ever-elusive damn-dame lady muse, hoping to create,             thoughts turning to friend kathleen, failing to find, develop her own poetic voice, live an open bardic life with visceral thoughts, experiencese, off to a distant university campus and ph-d candidacy, reading musty tomes, writings of elizabethan poets, learning rote indoctrination, ashes and sackcloth literary "musts," never asking what kerouac, old charley "buk" would say about donne, his sestets, sonnets,             taking momentary pause, econo sugar cookie respite, sitting on CLIFFS escarpment ledge, scanning far horizon to superior, big lake waters distant, looking down at the old smelter smokestack barely visible through dense pine needles, feeling certain the reality of my simple sugar cookie possessing more soul, truth than a white jesus, saving biblical scriptures, fat old buddha, tsar's edict, papal bull, "new age" tai chi, fen shui, crystals, shopping mall endorphin rush, surrounded by artificial trees, flowers, steady muzak hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,             tinge of twilight dusk forming around the day's edges, time to climb down the mountain, retrieve the old piece of shit auto tran-tran-tranny, return to the bard loft safe solitude in rare ethers above the omphale gallery, and fresh sessions wrestling with the crafty old dame muse, wondering if there is anything new to think and say about love, hate, pain, fear, loneliness, the final vertigo "poof," except continuing to keep the bardic faith, practicing, enjoying the rewards of generosity, encouraging the best in others, praising their potential, possibilities, not fearing death, living with a measured "joie de vivre" intensity, always aware to dream is to hope, and that hope is necessary for happy living. missive from maxine's mismaloya "mexico" por correo yo, chinaski, recent "greetings" from the irs added new definition if not dimension to my personal humiliation, old doctor johnny fever, wkrp jock was right, them sum-bitches play hardball all right, underfucked woman tax auditor, with stiff control persona, impressed by necessary rules and regulations, very comfortable with bureaucratic nomen- clature, smug air of satisfaction she had nailed a bad guy socking away huge sums of undeclared earnings, latent eichmann mentality, unhappy that so many escape punish- ment, absolutely zip-zero sense of humor when i jested about taking my demon rum drinking expenses off as a self- medicated tax deduction, alas, backwater poet in exile selling a few poetry chapbooks now and then, writing off some minor business costs, typewriter ribbons, legal pads, book or two, newspapers, magazines, futilely trying to explain i work with words, when i get them right they build a fire, provide warmth and life for another day, and, when they go wrong, i die a little like jack londons alaskan trapper freezing under snowy arctic boughs, of course, my defense falling on deaf ears to any human compassions, ah so, good "buk," the old boxer and athlete used to pain, and the poet accepting regular bruising heartbreak, ready for jail, doing time to protest government injustice, but, that's not so easy as walking into the federal slam, checking out your cell, getting directions to the library, exercise yard, and tee for the first nine holes, while saluting the ghosts of ali, thomas merton, no shit, charlie, they've got treasury department form #46074l, with fine- print detals about appeals court, district court, claims court, and the world series-super bowl of tax showtime in cincinnati, ohio, jumping jesus, two years ago i drove to rockford, illinois, and wasn't there ten minutes before i realized the insanity of my mistake, and began immediately plotting my escape, no way would i last in cincinnati, so i took the dive, said what ms. examiner wanted to hear as she ticky-tacked her portable electronic calculator, and, beat a "got yo ass kicked" retreat, wondering would some- one quickly put up the yellow crime scene tape, brought pail and mop, swobbed away the bloody carnage fallout, and, if my treasury department expert bean counter and master bureaucrat at the 5 p.m. closing time would turn her key in late model german import programmed to drive unerringly to the mall-mart stores for shopping, buying things to ease burden of destroying small fry citizens, graybeard poet, and piss-poor keeper of records, and some tomorrow soon her same transportation taking her to the camps, visiting head- quarters, commandant, informing on a suspicious neighbor, maybe, so, here i sit on a mountain road in mexico beside a sign reading 8 miles to puerto vallarta, trying to fit to- gether pieces of my black-on-black-out madness, like jack kerouac rousted from his drunk at the polo grounds and tell- ing the cop he was scouting for the columbia football team, vague, foggy recollection of o'hare "international gates," domestic gate 3l, houston, customs, passport and tourist visa stamped, papers in order, hole-in-the-wall 4 stool, 3 table mexican cantina, wildass dancing, wet kissing teenage whores, teasing graybeard gringo poet, whispering to mescal worm, discussing volcanoes, sugar skulls, dancing skeletons with consul firmin, jacqueline bisset, recalling existential ghosts in cantina shadows, butch, sundance, bogart, tim holt, old walter, laughing and dancing the two-step tango, brando-zapata shouting "arriba, arriba, arriba," cuidad del bardo, el loco, el loco, de la noche engra, finally awake, sitting roadside in bare feet, night bus long past, solitary crow circling, bone dog sniffing, messengers of death in a foreign land far from home, maybe, hoping to catch a lift, early morning burro train, truck with load of onions for the puerta vallarta markets, at least make it to maxine's, early in the morning bracer with t. lawrence shannon, man of the cloth, quiet discuss- ion of temporary frailities of "small cerebral instances," somehow making it back to the upper peninsula and unfinished busines, declaring confidentaly like mcmurphy, "i'm just warming up," old journeyman bard temporarily decked, taking the mandatory "standing eight," wiping swollen resin sore eyes, finishing the round and bout, giving good weight, aging poet back to life of reaching, creating new symbols and superstitutions where the old ones don't fit, leaving quiet fevers, fears, "i may have made a mistake" to others. (c) 2000 t.k. splake

[Poetry]            [Prose]            [Gallery]            [Home]