Clockwork Lightning

Halloween Comes Creeping

2009-10-13T21:22:00.004-04:00


The cold air chills the senses
As October comes around again…
Under a cloud streaked Harvest Moon…
                     The first frost descending
                Clings to fat orange pumpkins
          Some with Jack-O-Lantern smiles
Indian Corn stalks stacked…
Ghosts and witches in the windows…
Skeletons twisting in the trees…
           The dead arise fetid and obscene
                      The images of Halloween…

At sunset the earthy aroma hangs
Fall leaves are being burned…
After all their colors turned…
                              The tendrils of smoke
                   Swirl among the headstones
                    Blue-gray serpents tongues
Sensually stroking the cold…
Ancient weathered granite…
Markers of the dead…
            The bouquet of decay gone green
                    The smells of Halloween…

The wind moans a lost lament
As distant wolves howl a tune…
Discordant song sung to the moon…
                              The voices whispering
                    Eerie messages on the wind
                         Through skeletal fingers
Come haunting to our ears…
Enhancing our nervous fears…
As the bats awake from slumber…
            Dark wings flap overhead unseen
                    The sounds of Halloween…

Hair on necks stand stiffly
As we imagine sticky spider-webs…
Or monstrous claws upon our heads…
                               The ghosts and ghouls
                       Grabbing at our soft flesh
                         Jealous of our life’s blood
Their decayed flesh hangs…
Bare skulls and dripping fangs…
As we run away from the nightmare…
             A night of hysteria and screams
                      The feel of Halloween…

The Indian Pudding was tasty
And the pumpkin pie was a delight…
Now costumes appear in the night…
                               To trick-or-treat for
                       Sweet candies and cookies
                   Goodies for the fearless few
Who come a haunting…
By porch light, so undaunting…
Dreams of chocolate on each tongue…
          The candy corn and caramel crème
                       The taste of Halloween…

I celebrate the Pumpkin King
With a childish joy unbound…
At last Halloween has come around…
                         As it always comes again
                          Honoring the cycle of life
                    With it’s dying and it’s dead
We can confront our fears…
We all carry through the years…
With tools used from cradle to grave…
       I believe you may know what I mean
                   The five senses of Halloween

                                                 R. C. Arquette
                                                 10/8/00

Do Madmen Dream of Sanity?

2009-09-13T18:35:00.005-04:00

I sit
trance-like…
watching
the blips
bounce
rhythmically
down the hills
and valleys
of sine waves
in neon green…

electro-medical
mumbo-jumbo…

gaudy gauges
illustrating
binary patterns
of color,
brilliance,
and intensity…

it seems
to be trying
to make sense
of the cinematic images…
Technicolor landscapes…
realistic
surround sounds
that permanently
fill the soft space
within my
turtle skull…

so ‘hmmmmmm’
says I to me
and doing so
I birth
this question…

when fate
conspires to rob
a fragile mind
of tranquility…
scrambling reason…
shorting
synaptic switches
breaking
rapid-fire relays…
spinning logic
into darkness…
leaving a mind
that exists
in a realm
of cold sweat
hot flashes…

of phobic fear…

what happens
when at last
the fatigue comes
or the medication
settles the demons..
and sleep comes…

what happens
when
the sleeper slips
into a shroud
of unconsciousness…

is there terror…
are there
eels and worms
writhing in
dark corners…
do the nightmares
truly invade
as the volumes
of ‘mind shrink’
so decree
in common
choral voice…

is it naught
but chaos
blooming…
filling that
unguarded space
with manic dread…

or in fact…
do madmen
dream of sanity?

R. C. Arquette
8/2/07

A Suitcase with Attitude

2009-07-04T20:20:00.002-04:00


Mike and Jimmy Driscoll
were two of seven kids
supported by a single mom…
never much money to go around
they had to entertain themselves…
they spent most of their free time
exploring the woods
behind their little wood frame house…

on one of those explorations
Jimmy found a wounded Bobcat…
ordinarily fierce animals of muscle,
claws, and sharp pointy teeth…
it was nearly dead from being in a fight…
if it hadn’t been so beaten up
he wouldn’t have been able to
move it to their back porch
to doctor it…

he and Mike cleaned it up…
put some mercurochrome
or iodine on it’s wounds…
and gave it fresh water…
it rested and soon
began to eat…

they had it in a metal cage
too small for it to move around…
they showed it off to everyone…
hissing, spiting, and pawing the bars
with each viewing
from the neighborhood kids…
the animal grew stronger
and meaner…

their mother wanted it gone…
she figured someone would get hurt…
rabies from bites or scratches
was her major complaint…
so the day came it had to go…
but how?

the answer came
in the form of an old suitcase…
one of those cane weaved types
with a tweed design in beige
trimmed in dark brown…
the kind they used in the forties…
just big enough
to hold a troublesome Bobcat…
it didn’t have a handle
so they tied it up with
a piece of old rope…
punched a few holes
in the ends for air
and wrestled the cat inside…

instead of turning it loose
in the woods where they found it…
they trekked a drainage ditch
to a paved road a couple miles
from their house…
their reasoning was
they didn’t want the ‘shredder’
showing up again on the back steps…
the plan
was to dump it in the bushes
on the other side of the road
and then hike home…

they realized they had a problem…
they didn’t have the cage
to contain the cat anymore…
if they opened the case
they weren’t sure what would happen…
so Mike sat on the suitcase
as he and Jimmy went over the options…

occasionally a car would pass…

Jimmy, thinking aloud, said,
‘too bad we don’t have someone
to open it for us’…

‘well I’m not gonna’ do it!’
Mike replied, adding,
‘I gotta’ pee,’ …
he got off the suitcase
and went into the palmettos
to get rid of some Kool-Aid…

in the distance…
in the shimmer of the waves
coming off the hot asphalt…
a car was approaching…

Jimmy saw the car…
thought it the right time
to take a wiz himself…
so down in the bushes
he found his own tree to mark…

both boys had their backs to the road
deep in the cover of the undergrowth
they heard a car slowing…

Mike turned, in mid pee,
to see a beat up old Continental
with four middle aged black men
pull to a stop…
they eyed the suitcase…
then all four of them checked
up and down the road…
looking sneaky,
like spies on a mission…
checking for the bags owner
or just to make sure
no one was around…

before Mike could zip up…
the back door opened
and one of the men grabbed
the rope on the suitcase…
hauling it into the backseat
of the big, smoking, old car…

Mike yelled, ‘hey!’
wanting to warn them,
but if they heard him,
they didn’t care…
the car quickly sped off…
tires spinning…
leaving a cloud of dust
and blue smoke
hanging in the air at the roadside…

‘oh, crap!’ Mike spat,
‘we’re in deep now!’

he and Jimmy climbed back
out of the underbrush
and focused on the car
disappearing in the distance…

it had only rolled about
a hundred yards or so
when it came to a screeching halt…
all four doors exploded open
in the middle of the road…
and the black guys,
screaming hysterically,
all raced in different directions
for the cover of the woods…
one scrambled onto the hood
and then the top of the car
to avoid an encounter
with tooth and claw…

a few seconds later
the grumpy Bobcat
jumped out of the car
onto the road, looked around,
and in a leisurely manner
bounded off into the brush…

the four men
still hollered in strident tones…
angry, but relieved at their
near miss with the
surprise in the suitcase…

Mike and Jimmy,
feeling assured they
weren’t in trouble
for their unplanned prank…
lay low in the bushes…
for a long time…
till the car finally drove away…
their sides hurting
from trying to stifle their
uncontrollable
boyish laughter…

damn…
that old Bobcat
had sure made their day…

I suppose the same could
be said for the men in the car too…

                                        R. C. Arquette
                                        12/13/03

The Rivers of Summer

2009-06-23T15:35:00.003-04:00

The Myakka river
slowly twists and rambles
through saw edged palmettos,
long needle pines, and sable palms
past wide eyed bony scrub cattle
chewing their cuds; tails swatting flies…
drifting past stately bearded oaks
hung in clumps of Spanish moss
all gathered together in stoic silence
like groups of twisted old men…

A lone, long shiny Black snake,
it’s dark forked tongue darting
sampling the still summer air,
tiny glass-like eyes unblinking,
searching out its next warm meal…
almost unseen to the casual observer
he comes slipping through the tall weeds…
down upon the sandy riverbank…
weaving through the cat tails, hyacinth,
disappearing into dried brown reeds…

An undulation of tepid river water,
the color of strong freshly steeped tea,
swirls in eddies round fallen trees,
ripples around old cypress stumps,
making a serpentine lazy passage
past humid sweltering swamp,
shady hammock, and at it’s end,
somewhere in the distance,
dissolving into the tropical waters
of the blue watered Gulf of Mexico

An Otter family plays
a rough and rolling game of tag,
a mother and her three young pups
racing the riverbank, tail to tail
chasing each other in and out
of the river’s friendly embrace…
the jester kings of their domain…
absorbed in momentary diversions
beneath the long blue June sky…
gone as quickly as they appeared…

Limp, moss covered, and gray,
the old rope swing hangs unmoving
tied to the highest branch
of a tall scrawny oak…
perched high on the eroded bank
it defies gravity…
much as the dozen teens
did on hot summer afternoons
swinging wildly over the river
in carefree youthful abandon…

Dragonfly sits balanced
on a long green Yucca spine…
he has the Scrub Jay’s rapt attention…
Turkey vultures glide high overhead
spiraling on a sky full of thermals
as big Crows move tree to tree
cawing their familiar calls…
Cicadas buzz with the change
in temperature as a big fluffy cloud
rises up to block a blazing sun…

The storm moves in quickly
as is the case on summer afternoons…
It’s dark mass rolling in from the east
chasing the birds ahead of it…
whipping the long strands of moss
into a chaotic dance among the branches…
lightning tracks flash in the distance…
thunder follows, growling a warning
and the old river grows darker
to match natures changing mood

The rain starts and at once, intensifies,
hurling down drops the size of grapes…
pounding the leafy green canopy above…
disrupting the calm of the river’s dark surface…
striking the steep dry sandy banks…
craters pock the water-starved earth
and puffs of dust erupt from the impacts…
the humid tropical air is rapidly replaced
by a cold wetness that awakens the landscape
alive and dripping from the watery renewal…

The events remain wonderfully the same…
acorns rise up from the leaf-strewn ground
finding their way into the sunlight overhead…
growing into the moss bedecked grandfathers
that provides cover for the life on the ground…
surrounding flora and fauna, without complaint,
reenact the relentless process of life and rebirth …
even the quiet river goes though abrupt change
in times of flood joyously finding new directions…
it’s only time that seems to permanently slip away

The old brown Myakka
slowly twists and rambles
through saw edged palmettos,
native slash pine, and sable palm
past lazing alligator and curious raccoon…
past wild pigs rooting, horned owls hooting…
drifting past stately bearded oaks
draped in strands of Spanish moss
all gathered together in stoic silence
like the old man standing silent on the shore…

R. C. Arquette
6/20/00

Aztec Heart

2009-05-03T15:53:00.003-04:00


Some fought
 so I'm told...
  they cried and cursed
    a bad showing...
     now they have come for me

       I've tasted life fully
        in this past year...
         I am the chosen
          and I'm ready
           to meet
            my sacred destiny...
             bathed...
              perfumed...
               dressed
                in the finest 
                 of garments...
                  with a cloak 
                   of fine feathers

                     The sun is warm
                    as I begin...
                   high to the temple  
                  I stride...
                 a ceremony 
                of sound 
               and splendor...
              I am proud

            Time grows near...
           stripped
          I'm laid on bare stone
         stained red
        from the many
       before me...
      soon to bear my stain...

    Bells ring...
   drums throb...
  a prayer of offering...
 of joy
is spoken

  My moment is here...
   obsidian dagger
    raised in priestly hands...
     sacred hands...
      with my last breath
       I see it flash...
        then plunge...

          Silence

Family Legends: The Scotty and the Toaster

2009-04-03T19:52:00.003-04:00

My cousins Dot and Ed…
were fond of ‘doggies’…
they had a small
canine buddy living
as a member of
their household
since their marriage…

their preference
were Scotties…
cute, black and white
animals that looked
like hairy animations
with whisk brooms
for faces…

Dot and Ed treated
all their doggies
as lovingly
and as dotingly
as they did their
own children…
the animals were
bright and quite active
and a delight to watch…
they spent many
hours chuckling over
the antics of their
current family friend…

the dogs had the run
of the house…
they slept on couches,
beds, chairs, or
wherever they
wanted…
they owned the place…

one morning…
as the story goes…
Dot and Ed were
sitting at the breakfast
table with my mom…
sharing coffee
and English Muffins…
the conversation was
light as they tried
to wake up and face
the new day…

at one of those
momentary lapses
that occur in such
conversation…
their Scotty…
named MacGregor…
ran into the kitchen
sniffing frantically
from person to person…
spinning circles
about the kitchen floor
like a shaggy
whirling Dervish…

Dot got up
and carried her
cup and saucer
to the sink
and rinsed it…
the dog was darting
in and out of her
feet as she walked,
but she ignored
him listening to
what mom and Ed
were talking about…

as Dot sat back down
the dog ran over
to a kitchen step stool…
it climbed quickly
to steps and jumped
on a low cabinet…
then onto the kitchen desk…
and finally onto the
kitchen counter…

the dog had the run of
the house, it was true,
but this was a bit much
for even Dot’s standards…
as they sat starring
at the dog, it stood starring
back at them…

Dot said, sternly,
‘Mac, get down off there
this very moment!!’…
the dog didn’t move….
She added,
‘you’ll be sorry if you
don’t get your hairy
little butt off that
counter right now!!’
the dog cocked its head…
stared at her blankly…

then in a move that
the dog would remember
for the rest of it’s doggie life…
it showed it’s defiance
by running up to the
shiny chrome toaster
that sat on the kitchen counter…
cocked his back leg
in that familiar doggie salute…
and let go an arcing
yellow stream
right into
the open slots
of the toaster…
an electric toaster
that happened to be
plugged in and fully
functional…

there was an instant flash…
and old Mac was
shot off the counter
and onto the floor
by the sudden introduction
of AC current to his
little doggie member…
the dog howled
in sheer terror and pain
as it scrambled to gain a foot
hold on the tile floor…
peeing uncontrollably…
it rocketed off
into distant rooms of
the house…
howling all the way…

it happened so fast that
the three at the breakfast table
were stunned…
looking at each other…
thinking about what
had just happened while
Mac howled in the distance….

all three burst into laughter
as Dot got up to go try
to sooth poor Macs
shattered nerves…

not only did the dog
never attempt this maneuver again,
but it also refused to ever
go back in the kitchen
for the rest of its
doggie life…

can’t blame him…

Transitions

2008-12-31T17:54:00.001-05:00

I scratched out lyrics
with a number two pencil
on the course pages of an
unused composition book…
a collage of thoughts
and dreams arranged there
the promise of a rock stars
the girls, the flash,
the fame was all it took…

I graduated to a clear plastic
Shaffer cartridge pen
peacock blue ink swirls
on Nifty notebook paper….
inspired by Poe’s dark
and gothic poetic images
I discarded lyrics for a
poets rhymes and rhythms
to share my visions
as a writer and word shaper…

I moved on to a
large yellow legal pad
giving me more acreage
to plant my images upon…
and a new Rapidograph pen
of pure jet black ink
that left a wondrous line
and the words flowed
across the page…

I received a treasure
an old portable Underwood
a clickity-clack black typewriter
a boys twelfth birthday gift…
it arranged my thoughts
neatly on each invisible line
spacing out the words
making my writing seem
so lightning swift…

I left home and found
the words had quickly slowed
as I became entangled
in the day to day…
with marriage and family
and working a real job
to provide security
and bring home my pay…

I received a surprise
from a special birthday gift
given me by my thoughtful
and grinning wife…
a sky blue
Smith-Corona electric
a speedy typewriter
that we both hoped
might change a writers life…
I banged out short stories
filling up paper by the tree
and sent them off to all sorts
of glossy waiting magazines…
I was told this was how it started
I read this was the way it was done
and if I overlooked the rejection
in obvious due time
it would led me to my dreams…

I put away the electric when
computers made the scene
it was faster, and neater,
and would correct all my mistakes…
it sent stores and poems galore
to one address after another
and received notes in return
which all seemed to echo
‘sorry, you ain’t got what it takes’

I write now for heart and mind
arranging my life upon the page
using the monitor and keyboard
on my fourth computer reincarnation…
I look back on all those pieces
like a puzzle of where I’ve been
and what I have become
smiling at changes and transitions
embracing dreams and limitations…

R. C. Arquette
12/20/05

2008-12-02T14:58:00.005-05:00


Once…
        it seems like dreams ago…
        he set out on a daring quest…
        to taste of life from every cup…
each chalice pressed to lips
filled with sweet discovery…
filled with promise, passion,
        and persuasion…
a task which in his youth
he carried out with relish…
noting no two taste the same…
        each different
        and intriguing on their own…
some found sweet and cloying…
some floral and pungent…
some bitter and repellent…
yet never once was one denied…
all found heady and sublime…
        on occasions…
        indulging desire yet again…
delighted by a subtle rare bouquet
intrigued by a dark woody under taste…
        some again
        and again
        unable to get his fill…
        growing ever intoxicated
        with each new offering…
until at last
desire finally slaked…
he gave pause to reflect…
         conjuring
         that sensual sojourn
         attempting to define the best…
the one true captivating nectar
that had caused contentment…
a soft stirring in his breast…
         the one true elixir
         to be sought
         and secured …
         to captivate his spirit
         for a lifetime…
yet when he sought
that special find
that sweet intoxicant
to soothe his spirits…
he was distraught to find
        it had slipped away…
        acquired by someone
        more astute than he…
a person of some insight…
yet unaware of the rarity
of his acquisition…
oh lucky man…
        now he looks upon
        the empty chalice…
        he wets his lips
        remembering the nectar…
        sweet as plum wine…
        light as butterfly wings…
trying to accept 
a loss of bliss
once so close…in sips…

My Halloween of Pain

2008-10-16T19:15:00.002-04:00

When Halloween mischief
becomes more than a prank …
turning thoughtless and cruel…
the spirits of the night
have an unspoken way
of exacting a balance…
applying sudden doses
of pain and humiliation
to the unthinking
perpetrators
as punishment
for their foul deeds…
I know…
I was such a prankster…

at fifteen
too old for the door to door
‘trick or treat’ of childhood,
but always ready
for a Halloween of hijinks
and irritating trickery…
assemble three teenaged boys
on a moonless Halloween night
add a carton of fresh eggs
and Mr. Trouble
won’t be too far away…

the three of us
had seen toilet papered trees,
garbage cans turned over,
window soaped,
mailboxes battered
the usual deviltry
as we passed little groups
of ghosts, skeletons,
goblins and fairies
who laughed and squealed
as they moved
house to house
in the black velvet
cover of night…

our trio had been restrained…
enjoying the freedom
of wandering the streets
as if invisible…
wrapped
in a cloak of darkness…
while avoiding
the occasional
patrol car by hiding
behind buildings and hedges…

Gilbert was tired
of carrying his ‘dozen eggs’
and longed for a worthy target…
then, like a wish come true
around the next turn…
drifting into view
there appeared a house…
in the back,
a patio glowed in floodlight…
a tall fence surrounded
its perimeter…
adults laughing and drinking…
older folks by their sound…
having a Halloween
get together…
the yard outside the fence
was almost pitch black…
Gilbert grinned, ‘let’s do it!’…

we three zealots of mischief
quickly divided up the
‘cackle-berries’…
then standing back
thirty feet in the darkness
we let loose
a rapid fire volley…
each of us unleashing
four eggs in quick succession…
each dropping into the light
then disappearing
behind the fence…

the laughter stopped…
then the shouts rang out…
a women squealed…
men cursed…
the night came alive
as a gate was flung open…
light shot out in a bright ‘V’
across the corner of the yard…

the three of us jumped…
sensing death
and dismemberment
we took off at full bore
in opposite directions…
the adrenaline pumped
as I chuckled to myself
and sprinted awkwardly away
from the angry revelers…

I hadn’t raced twenty feet
when running full bore through a line
of tall, shaggy barked, punk trees
I hit a short, rolled wire fence,
invisible in the darkness…
which caught me across my thighs
and flipped me violently
over on my face
in the thick, damp grass…

confused by the sudden stop…
it had knocked the wind out me
and left me groaning into
the dirt and sod…
but the figures in the light
behind me grew closer
and louder…
I didn’t have time to lay there…
I had to make my get away
or suffer the wrath
of the mad party-goers…

I dragged myself to my feet…
wobbling on rubbery legs,
glanced over my shoulder
to see the angry crowd closing…
and then took off again…
running in a panic through
an open lot next door…

I was up to full run again
when my luck ran out…
a ¾ inch galvanized pipe
with a hose bib on it,
unseen in the darkness
and the panic of the moment,
stood firmly in my path…

the head and handle
caught me square in the crotch…
WHAM!…
suddenly the stars came out…
man, I saw lots of freakin’ stars!…
I was hurt…
and again upended, landing,
on my grass and dirt stained face…
this time I just lay there…
cupping my injured male parts…
the knife like pain in my belly…
causing the choked sounds
of me sucking air
to fill the cool, crisp, night air….

the unholy threats
of my pursuers slowly faded away…
the night grew silent around me…
I no longer cared if I was caught…
Because at that moment
I had only one thought…
all I wanted to do was die…

I lay there for an eternity
focused on the pain…
and eventually
I found myself alone…
managing to stagger to my feet,
whining sheepishly
I took my bruised ego
And my battered body parts
and limped off into the night…

later I met up with my buddies…
they were ready to continue
the nights adventures…
I wasn’t…
I didn’t go into details,
but do to my ‘delicate condition’
I bowed out…
indicating, ‘thank you very much,’
but I’d had far too much
fun for one night…
possibly too much fun for a lifetime…

that was my Halloween of pain…
the night I became a believer
in the laws of Karma…

and the last time I ever tossed
an egg at anything!

R. C. Arquette
1/13/04

The Night I was Mistaken for a Morlock

2008-09-09T23:37:00.005-04:00

'The Time Machine' (1960)

The Morlocks are restless...

The author H. G. Wells
wrote many wonderful books…
some volumes were comprehensive
collections of the history of the world…
while others,
considered more flights of fancy,
envisioned a distant future
of men and machines…
one such classic stands out,
‘The Time Machine’…

a man invents a machine
that carries him
backward or forward in time…
he eventually finds himself
in the distant future
in a world populated
by the youthful Elois
who are raised like cattle
in a world of plenty
overseen by a monstrous group
of underground mutants
called Morlocks…
cannibalistic ghouls
with grotesque features…

in 1960
the director George Pal
made the story into a movie…
it starred Rod Taylor
as ‘George’ the time traveler…

I was ten
my brother Jon was eight…
one Friday evening our mom
took us to see it at the Gulf Theater…

she loved to see movies and didn’t
care much what they were about…
she knew the story vaguely
and she knew Rod Taylor
from some biblical epic
she’d liked him in…
so that was enough
to get the three of us
out of the house for the evening…

we all ate popcorn,
drank RC Colas,
enjoyed the coming attractions,
cartoons, and finally the main feature…
all went very well…
we laughed at the funny stuff,
were amazed at the amazing stuff,
and jumped
and winced at the scary stuff…
by 10:00 pm Jon and I were home,
with our teeth brushed, pajamas on,
and tucked into our single beds
in a shared bedroom…

mom and dad had settled in watching
the old Zenith black and white
in the living room…
relaxing in the quiet…
absorbed in their viewing…
Jon and I soon drifted into sleep…

within a half an hour of dozing
I had to get up and use the bathroom…
I got out of bed and sleepily
weaved my way toward
the bedroom door…
in doing so
I groaned as I bumped
into the foot of Jon’s bed…

this was enough to wake him…
through sleepy eyes he saw me…
hunched over the bed
my darkened shape
was silhouetted in the light
behind me in the open doorway…
he let out a scream!…

it scared hell out of me
and I let out a scream as well!…

he screamed again!…
and I, fearing for my life,
turned and ran into the hall…

he was hot on my heels screaming…
and quickly was pawing at my back
trying to push me out of the way
so he could get by…
we both ended up
climbing over each other
all the way to the end of the hall…
spilling out into the living room
and falling in a writhing heap
on the floor…

both parents looked at us
in total, wide-eyed amazement…
mom leaping up to pull us apart…
dad grumbling at the display
once he figured out
we weren’t being murdered…

mom finally got us quieted down…
Jon quit sobbing long enough
to gasp out that there were
‘Morlocks in the bedroom!’…
mom grinned,
‘ohhhh, that’s what this is all about!’…
I said, ‘what?’
not sure that I’d heard him correctly…
‘there was a big Morlock on my bed
and it was coming to eat me!’
he gasped…
he was referring to me…
the Morlock at the foot of his bed…

‘that was me, you moron!’ I laughed…
mom smacked the back of my head,
‘don’t call your little brother a moron!’
dad grumbled again…
‘see what happens when you take
these two to those weird movies, Jane?’
he shook his head disgustedly,
‘you’ll have ‘em both up all night
with nightmares, squealing
like a bunch of loonies!’

mom led us back to bed…
calmed us down and tuck us in…
telling us to be quiet
and go to sleep…

she pulled the door to…
her feet padded off down the hall…
a moment past in the darkness…
I grinned, thinking
that this would there after
be the night I was mistaken
for a Morlock…

‘Morlock!’ groaned Jon, from his bed…
‘moron!’ I snapped back…

then as a final statement
to the whole evenings misadventure…
from down the hall
dad barked, ‘shut-up in there!’…

and we did…
for he was far scarier
than any Morlock ever was…

R. C. Arquette - 2/22/04

You Make My Ass Tired

2008-09-07T22:35:00.004-04:00


Too large
the burden tied
to Jethro’s straining back…
please ease the ropes
that bind…

unload
that animal…
and lay his burden down…
treat him fondly
and fair…

he stares
an angry stare…
I see it in his eyes…
the long day breaks
his spine…

I growl
with great disgust
‘you make my ass tired’…
all you can do
is shrug…

piss poor
excuse for a
humanitarian…
‘you make my ass
tired’

                      R. C. Arquette
                                  9/6/08

Geometry of the Living

2008-08-31T14:36:00.002-04:00

If birth is point A
And death is point B
The lifeline between must be me
This line stretches out in one direction
Broken on occasion by an intersection
To a destination yet unseen

I’ve tried manipulation
And applied creative articulation
To what is seemingly fixed and mundane
An attempt to alter design by an active brain
Yet lifelines struggle to remain the same
In spite of my interpretation

I don’t care for vertical
It all seems so upright and imperial
Because vertical implies a lofty need
For me lofty is just another nosebleed
And therefore defined non-essential
Found to be inconsequential

I’m not much for horizontal
It’s all too lifelike and elemental
Common position for sleep, sex and death
Only difference being a variance of breath
And in the end all too damn incidental
A wise mans image of contemporary hell

It’s these angles that I’m drawn to
Angles that define my world anew
On desktops, roadmaps, and daydreams
In art work, playgrounds, and street scenes
It’s tranquility and peace they’re giving
The angles in the geometry of the living

To a destination still yet unseen
Broken on occasion by an intersection
The lifeline stretches out in one direction
This angle filled line must be me
Since my birth is point AAnd death is point B

The Death of Religion

2008-08-16T21:25:00.001-04:00


A moving, warming sun
just one more inch to the right...
Then a beam, sparkling,
shoots through stained glass
across the pews
that shine in their emptiness...
Brushing over silvery tile,
over velvets and braid...
Finally settling
in righteous perfection
across a still 
troubled face...
Of one who needed...
One who waited
patiently...

But no one came…

Amen.

                     R. C. Arquette
                                       1970

The Rivers of Summer

2008-08-10T21:37:00.002-04:00

Frogtown Serenade

2008-08-09T20:33:00.004-04:00


The storm
comes rolling in
out of the east…
just like it does every
afternoon…
between three and four…
you can almost 
set your watch by it…
        a rolling cloud…
        that first looks
        like the ugly color
        of a big black eye…
        stretching across the sky
        from one end to the other…
        then as the wind rises
        it changes to 
        indigo black…
dark, water-filled 
tails whip off from
the leading edge…
lightning shoots from
its soft underside…
thunder rattles the
windows and sends all
the black birds,
sea gulls, and jays racing
off to the west…
chasing the sun..

the first
heavy drops
slap against the roof,
the sidewalk, 
and the steaming
asphalt in the street…
        in a moment
        the bottom falls out
        and the rain arrives 
        with a torrential roar…
the temperature drops…
cold air gusts through
the palms and pines…
lightning jabs the ground
close enough to touch…
followed by cannon
shots of thunder
that crack and boom…
cats and dogs run…
people jump
as they cover their ears
to the frightful barrage…

the storm drops
to a heavy, steady rain…
the rhythm…
a broken staccato 
on the roof…
dripping
from the eaves…
        I lie on my bed…
        the cool breeze 
        moves through the
        open window…
        the air is clean…
as I slip into
a contented sleep
listening…
a smile on my face
for the choir…

another rainy eve
spent with bullfrogs
and green,
tree peepers…
        a Frogtown Serenade…

R. C. Arquette
6/20/08

The Great Pick-Up Line Gone Bad

2008-08-06T16:33:00.002-04:00

In the ever-popular ritual of human courtship and mating, the ‘ice-breaker’ has been raised to the level of art form. Don’t be coy with me, you know exactly what I’m speaking of, we’ve all been involved in this event at one point or another. Yes, I’m referring to that opening line that must occur between one interested party and another; that line on which we balance the team of ego and libido. Of course I’m referring to the infamous ‘pick-up line,’ a rather unattractive phrase for something that we can’t really do without.

Some of us are better at picking the right line and the right time to use it, others flounder hopelessly for a lifetime trying to sound sincere. I’ve never been one for using pick-up lines, I was married too early to ever get a real chance to explore the practice, but I have heard a few that were rather creative or just downright terrible.

‘What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a joint like this?’ This old and feeble example is not even worthy of scorn on the part of its intended target. Another that jumps to mind, having been reworked into a country tune goes, ‘If I said you had a lovely body would you hold it against me?’ This is so bad it has become a bar-room classic. There are a million more of these chestnuts floating around, but like I said, I never had the need or want to use them so I can’t give you very many more illustrations.

The reason I bring this all up is not so much because of the pick-up lines themselves, but often the responses back can be even more entertaining, which brings me to this.

I used to work for Art, this little retired Bosons Mate, who was a cocky little man, round bellied, with a W. C. Fields gin blossom type nose. He was a funny guy who tried to puff himself up two or three times his normal size so those around would think he was tough. Actually he was a cream puff, but we all kept his secret. He loved the ladies, his after hours bouts with a bottle, and life in general.

He told me story once that stuck, about his early days in the Navy when he was stationed in Pensacola Florida. He spent about six months there before being shipped out to Vietnam to duty on one of the River Gun-boats that were so popular amongst the Viet Cong; a dangerous place to serve during active wartime. He saw many of his buddies killed along the waterways of the South.

He used to go into the Officer’s Club in the afternoon to have himself a couple snorts before heading off to eat or back to his quarters. Nine out of ten times when he went there, he’d find the same attractive woman, dressed to the teeth, sitting on an end barstool slowly smoking one cigarette after another while nursing a Manhattan. He asked the bartender about her one day and the guy told him she was the Base Commander’s wife. They evidently didn’t have much of a marriage left, so she spent her time sitting in the Club waiting for the next good looking guy in white (or beige) to come along. The bartender felt she’d probably bedded most of the men who came through the club. Art felt that maybe he’d been overlooked and decided to do something about it.

He had the bartender take the woman another drink. He watched the man put the drink in front of her, mouth something, and turn and walk away. The woman didn’t even look up. She finished her drink and then started in on the one Art bought her. He was a bit miffed, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily.

The bartender asked him what he was trying to do. Art said he’d like to get a little of that action if the lady was willing. The bartender smiled. Art asked him if he’d ever scored with the woman. The bartender said emphatically NO, indicating he had to work there and didn’t need the weight of a relationship with the Commander’s wife to get in the way of his paying the rent.

Art had a couple more drinks. He called the bartender over for another round for he and the lady. He asked him what he felt was the best approach with the woman. The guy didn’t bat an eye, replying that the direct approach was always the best. Tell her how you feel and what you want, if she wants the same, bam, you’re home free. Art thought about it, felt it was as good an answer as any, and since he was shipping out in a week, he went for it.

He hiked up his pants, put on his cap, paid the tab and tipped the bartender, and then sauntered the length of the bar to where the woman was sitting. He knew she could see him, but she didn’t look away from her drink.

He cleared his throat and said to her, ‘You have got to be one of the most beautiful women I’ve seen and I’d just love to get into your pants,’ and he waited for her to either slug him, scream, or get up and leave in a huff.

She did none of those things, instead she took a few seconds to put out her cigarette and take slow sip from her drink. Then for the first time since he’d seen her, she turned slowly and looked him square in the face. Without missing a beat, the woman calmly and flatly said (one of the all time great replies in the history of pick-up lines);

‘Well, you know I couldn’t really afford for that to happen,…because you see, I’ve already got one ass-hole in there as it is.’ She turned and resumed staring at her drink.

Art said his ego was a bit bruised, but he had to laugh…all the way out the front door of the Club and back to his digs. She’d got him, but he’d also gained a story that he would tell again and again for a lifetime.

As for me, every time I’ve seen an attractive woman sitting at a bar I’ve heard that line come spinning around again. So I finish my drink, pay the tab, tip the bartender, and quietly go home with a grin on my face…but my ego intact. Thanks Art, for saving me the scars.

Your Faithful Reporter - RCat

Forgotten Faces on Thrift-Shop Shelves

2008-08-05T16:00:00.004-04:00

that stale smell
a sour mix of age
born of tobacco smoke,
sweat, cooking grease,
brittle paper, plastic,
and baby odors
it hangs like London fog
in any thrift shop,
in any town,
anywhere…

it fills the aisles
as we collectors
and deal seekers search
cruising the shelves
like hungry wolves,
looking for game
in search of
like-new tee shirts,
blue jeans worn at the knee,
colorful collector glassware,
old yellowing books,
well worn dolls
arcane golf clubs,
canes, crutches
and walkers
left behind by those
healed or past on
the castoffs of life
litter the shelves…

handled by the elderly
incomes demanding thrift
the upscale looking
for a find to grace a trophy case
and impress a snobbish friend
the homeless and poor
grimy and worn
eyes wide looking
for warmth and wear
street kids from the suburbs
looking for costumes
to state independence
that flash ‘check me out!’
the young and old
grazing the fields of the used
one mans trash
another mans treasure….

and always somewhere
in a corner, a barrel,
a table or a bin
stand clustered in chaos
the oil paintings, prints,
and old frames
call them gifts
or ugly mistakes
purchased
on bad vacations
passed on
by sweet aunt Rose
painted
by myopic cousin Stewart
found wrapped
offered for birthdays,
forgotten anniversaries,
Christmas under the tree
only later
to be found buried in attics
hidden in dark basements
dust covered in garages
next to become
remnants of an estate
garage or yard sale
unwanted
artistic refuse
of a world with
incredibly bad taste
and the desire to buy anything…

next to the paintings
is a sad but familiar corner
full of aging picture frames
in gilt, wood, metal,
and tortoise shell
fifty cents to maybe three dollars
all waiting to be refilled
with current friends and kin
all rifled through
a hundred times
left at every angle and condition
some twisted and broken
some with glass missing
most with a lost photo
a sepia toned shot
filled with history
filled with a need
to be somewhere else
to be loved
not tossed aside…

a couple on their nuptial day
smiling for a future
now obviously long since past
a soldier in his uniform
someone’s brother or son
left upon a beach at Normandy
a little girl in high button boots
with a china head doll
a little boy with girlish curls
in knickers with his sleepy dog
a stoic family in gingham aprons,
overalls, and stove pipe hats
people of the fields
a hundred
different faces
in a thousand
different stores
all the people
of a million lifetimes
left here nameless
and forgotten
a morgue
for departed memories
a graveyard
for these people now unknown
all their good times
and their bad times
etched here
upon each staring face
a history in wrinkles
a promise in a smile
joy within the gleam reflected
in a chocolate colored eye…

each time I’m here
it causes me to stop
and look into those images
those oh so familiar faces
while thinking
once again
how we all could live forever
if we could
just keep from ending up
among the forgotten faces
on Thrift Shop shelves….

R. C. Arquette 2/8/04

Squirrel Fishing with Lefty & Iron Balls McGinty

2008-07-03T23:44:00.004-04:00


I enjoyed floating through an afternoon
at my late, great, brother Jon’s;
a can of Busch beer in hand…
my butt on a picnic table bench…
getting numb with nature
in the greenness
of ‘Drunken Gardens’

among the Ironwoods and Brazilian Pepper
            sitting long stretches without a word
                              lost in thought or boredom
               occasionally going for another beer
                                                or to take a pee…
              maybe passing on news of someone
                     or something of mutual interest
                   while the sounds of Freddie King
                                      or Stevie Ray Vaughan
                       painted the air with the blues…

on hot days the Kmart wadding pool
offered a Scooby-Doo wet spot to cool down
a can of old golf balls and a driver at hand
offered an oft used diversion
tearing line-drives through
the Kudzu vines…
and occasionally…
squirrel fishing

Jon had two hand-feed, fuzzy tailed tree rats
               who reigned over Drunken Gardens;
   a pair of skittish, wire tailed, gray squirrels
             that gave inspiration to a new sport…
  one the Olympic committee had overlooked
            in their quest for curious competition,
      but gave the human guests to the gardens
                        cause for intoxicated interludes
                                                         of sheer joy…
                                                 and stark terror…

the female had a nick out of her right ear
she was aggressive and fearless
Jon called her Lefty…
the male was the target of Lefty’s abuse
she controlled the yard
he was only there because she let him
she let him because he had giant gonads
that dragged the ground between his legs
when she was ready he was ready
so she kept him around
Jon called him Iron Balls McGinty,
for obvious reasons…

both of these yard sharks loved peanuts
         Jon bought jumbo bags of peanuts
                        He had the market curbed
   on un-salted jumbo roasted peanuts…
      Jon always maintained three things:
                                       Beer, toilet paper,
 and un-salted jumbo roasted peanuts…
    we’d run out of beer and toilet paper,
             but there were always peanuts…
                             squirrels can be vicious
                       if you run out of peanuts…

Jon also had a bicycle, a surfboard,
and an aging fishing pole
that laid around his back room
for the most part untouched…

                       he rewound the fishing reel
in the leafy surroundings of the gardens
                              leaving the fishing pole
                            leaning against the table
                 for half a Saturday afternoon…
                              a partial bag of peanuts
                 sat a couple feet away awaiting
          the mother of invention to arrive…
                                                         she did…

  mono-filament line with a tiny lead weight
tied at the center of a roasted jumbo peanut
                                                became the bait…
               tossed with a marksman’s accuracy
                             the line spun out thirty feet
                      dropping the goober near Lefty
             and getting her immediate attention
                           she hopped toward the bait…

we all grinned
leaning forward on the bench
to observe the engagement
of man and raw nature
man versus wary squirrel
a battle of wits where only one animal
could walk away…
[a dozen times if the line didn’t break]

                        Lefty snatched the peanut
                        but Jon was quick to tug…
                the dry brown shell popped up
and danced a few feet away in the grass
                   the tree rat bounded forward
                   lunged for the nut and it was
                                 popped away again…
                                       reeling in the line
            moving the nut closer and closer
                                    to the picnic table…

across the yard it moved in grabs
and jerks
the nut flew up
Lefty bounced to attack
it reached the bench
the  squirrel went up after it
flopping around it was finally secured
in the chiseled front teeth
of the frantic rodent…

                            in a tenacious grip
 the animals teeth and front paws
                    held on to the fat prize
                      as it became airborne
                         lifted by the peanut
                          leaving the bench…
         up, up, up onto the table top
the creature wiggled and writhed
      little grunts and chirps issued
       from between clenched teeth
               as it spun like some mad
                              whirling dervish
               in a crazed peanut ballet
 tugging relentlessly at the bait…

the members of the fishing expedition
were in convulsions of laughter…
spilling beer and holding back
from peeing themselves
as the insane visage of Lefty
being slowly spun above the table top…
refusing to let go of the nut of her dreams…
she battled on…

                  a final twang of the plastic line
                      a quick dash across the yard
and the peanut and squirrel were gone…
                         squirrel fishing was born…

of course there were others
squirrels don’t mind looking foolish
if there is a fat peanut as the outcome
so there were many more encounters
that went down in the backyard of summer

                                          Jon is gone now
            he and his liver had a falling out
         Lefty and Iron Balls left offspring
      and finally moved on following Jon
     the little wooden house is still there
but drunken gardens aren’t the same…

yet every time I pass
I see ghosts of memory at play
acting out the good times
missing moments shared
when life was simple and silly
and a true gentleman’s pass time
like squirrel fishing
was the only thing
that was real…

                   R. C. Arquette 
                                              4/17/03

The Road to Mudcrutch Farm

2008-06-28T21:53:00.003-04:00

Just a flash past Dub's,
out on thirteenth,
the sunday assembly just kept growin'
drifting down the dusty side street
Dirt freak daddies
with their Hogtown old ladies
huggin' bottles of wine
and fat bouncing babies

They smelled the music
and heard the smoke
Pine trees swayin' in a warm summer haze
Laughing out loud at their own jokes
Homegrown denim,
peasant girls with hair swingin'
Sweet hip shakin' mommas
their young bodies swayin'

And that was the charm
walkin' arm and arm
feelin' free
on the road to Mudcrutch farm
High time laughin'
and barefoot dancin'
down the road to Mudcrutch farm

The band was rockin'
in the side yard
sending Byrds high on an afternoon sky
while John B. Good stroked his guitar
Cheshire cat smiles
and sleepy eyed styles
pulled the rest of them in
as they danced that last mile

Long haired floaters
lost in the moment
watchin' the crazy old world spin away
groovin' in laid back contentment
The tie dyed ones
Mother Nature's sons
trippin' to the back beat
beneath a Gainesville sun

And that was the charm
walkin' arm and arm
feelin' free
on the road to Mudcrutch farm
High time laughin'
and barefoot dancin'
down the road to Mudcrutch farm

R. C. Arquette
9/22/95

Humankind

2008-06-24T22:24:00.001-04:00

I discovered early on my true aversion for my "fellow man."I use that phrase, "fellow man" loosely, for I try to think of myself apart from the unwashed rabble as much as I can. Not because I'm an elitist, I feel far from it; I am assuredly a man with feet of clay, but because the general quality of the people I meet, ranked on an unwritten scale of rudeness, personality, intellect, empathy, etc., falls far below the expectations of your typical whining fifth grader. I'm sure you've been exposed to these people on a daily basis as I have.

People like: the overweight woman in hot pants, tube top, cell phone pressed to her head, yelling at someone about picking up the "friggin' house" before she gets home, with 3 hacking grubby kids climbing all over everything while she digs through a purse the size of Delaware in search of her checkbook. She's ahead of you in the express line at the grocery store (no checks please) with a cart full of sugary breakfast cereal and beer (10 items or less, HA!)and you're standing there with a loaf of bread, a gallon of melting ice cream, and cash in hand! This is when I wish I owned a stun gun!

Or how about the chick behind the counter at the Drug Store on the phone with one of her goofy friends comparing how drunk they were at the teen-orgy of the night before; ignoring the fact you, or the three people in line behind you exist.

Oh to have a bull-horn and a seltzer bottle!

Then there was the woman who wanted to know if I knew an electrician to change the wall switch and receptacle plates in her house...the two screws had her baffled and in fear of electrocution!

What?...There I stand, slack-jawed in amazement!

How far do these people go? How ignorant and unthinking can they get?

Check out the Darwin Awards web site if you'd really like to see just how totally "zoned" our species can get...it's amazing!

And be careful out there...they lurk at every corner!

Your Faithful Reporter - RCat

A Timeline for our Preoccupation

2008-06-21T18:50:00.002-04:00


So it begins…

Initiation
Attraction
Connection
Communication
Conversation 
Exploration
          Acceptance [advance one space]
                     or rejection------------ > Start over
Deeper communication
Expanded conversation
Closer exploration
Established relations
Increased personal attention
           Acceptance [advance one space]
                      or rejection------------ > Start over
Mutual intention
Growing excitation
Physical stimulation
           Acceptance [advance one space]
                      or rejection ----------- > Start over
Increased excitation
Rapid stimulation
Total sensual immersion
Penetration
Copulation
Duration
            Ten seconds 
                      of maximum sensation
Repetition or exhaustion
           Acceptance [advance one space]
                      or rejection----------- > Start over
Love or lust decision
           Acceptance [advance one space]
                       or rejection---------- > Start over
Continued repetition
Marriage inception
Declining repetition
           Continuation [advance one space]
                      or divorce------------ > Start over
Continued repetition
More imagination
           Continuation [advance one space]
                     or celibacy------------ > Start over
                                                                        |
                                                                 Give up
                                                                        |
                                                                  Croak!
So it ends…
All else is but various ‘wet spots’ in time…

                                                       R. C. Arquette 
                                                                   4/21/04

Blue Lotus

2008-06-14T20:27:00.003-04:00


Magic 
Beneath the moon 
Our heated passions rise 
Effects of the Blue Lotus bloom 
                                    Aroused 

Aroused 
Night sky above 
Tangled in each other 
We Blue Lotus eaters shudder 
                                       Magic 

Magic 
That which consumes 
Merging two into one 
The Blue Lotus blending our flesh 
                                        Aroused 

Aroused 
Then the fire fades 
Exhausted we find sleep 
The gift of the Blue Lotus flower 
                                         Magic 

Magic 
Beneath the moon 
Inflamed emotions rose 
The spell of the Blue Lotus bloom 
                                        Aroused 



                                 R. C. Arquette 
                                        5/17/01

"SEX!!"

2008-05-31T17:24:00.001-04:00

It’s the consummate sales pitch, the one supreme idea that led to the biggest winner for capturing human attention. Summed up in three letters, a concept that wherever the word appears, grabs our subconscious and demands attention. A little ‘three letter’ word that printed in bold type stands out against a sea of words or the emptiness of a pristine white page. You’ve seen it. You’ve reacted to it as well, whether you’d like to admit it or not, and been drawn back to it again and again. Like the trick your old man used to play on you, pulling a nickel from behind your ear, over and over, you knew it was a trick, but you went for it every time. The same trick applies here, over and over you’ve seen it and been taken in, you can’t help it, it’s like a wreck at the side of the road; you have to look in spite of all your civilized pretensions. What three letter word could possibly have such effect on mankind? Like you didn’t know; it’s SEX.

The printed word, SEX, is certainly enough to get the attention of any healthy human being with the ability to read, but we can take this a step further. It’s been said that ‘a picture is worth a thousand words,’ another wonderful human concept, one that I can totally agree with, and when it comes to SEX it takes on an even more powerful relevance.

We humans react to visual stimuli. Show someone a picture of a juicy steak and like Pavlov’s Dogs they start to salivate. Flip open the latest issue of Penthouse to a gatefold spread and most young males suddenly find a pleasant stirring in their ‘jockey shorts.’ I would venture to say that women experience some warm and friendly reaction to the centerfold in Playgirl as well. They are reacting to the visual images of the human body, either engaged in some provocative behavior for the camera, or simply nude and displayed for the viewers appreciation and libidinous lust. This is why Playboy, Penthouse, Gallery, Hustler, Playgirl, and the plethora of other such printed material became so popular back in the 1960’s and remains of adult interest to this day. Even though sales have fallen off for the magazine publishers, there has been an expanded interest in the video releases available with SEX as the theme.

What is now referred to as a ‘porno empire’ is merely the extension of the sexual interest born back in the 50’s with those little ‘Tijuana bibles’ that parodied familiar cartoon characters of the day involved in all sorts of sexual situations, or their cousins, the tiny ‘photo bibles’ which were poorly produced miniature books of crude looking people posed in sexual acts in black and white; the ‘black bar’ over the eyes to protect the not so innocent, or the guys naked except for their socks, where often among the humorous images presented.

This proved there was a market for sex, but it needed to be legitimized in order to maximize sales and make it publicly acceptable; a fight from the start. There was, and is, a group of protectors of the public morality, a ‘league of decency’ if you please, that are always there trying to protect us from the evils of SEX. Anything relating to the issues of SEX, other than an unfortunate description for ‘how babies are made,’ has always had these morality experts pulling their wagons in a circle to fend off the legion of smut peddlers they’ve sworn to eradicate. In spite of their efforts the selling of SEX for recreational purposes has blossomed to a billion dollar a year cash cow. People are always going to find a way to get whatever it is they’re told they can’t have, something we all learned as kids, but these folks seem to have forgotten.

SEX just isn’t something we drag out from under the bed in a box along with the ‘orgy butter’ and ‘the ultimate intruder’ vibrator. Today, as most days, you will find sex everywhere you look. Why? As we’ve discovered it’s of universal interest and thus becomes a co-opted tool of advertisers and those with a product to sell. If you hook your feminine hygiene spray, shampoo, mouthwash, condoms, cigarettes, booze, underwear, clothing, cars, candy, or any of zillion other items to SEX you sell more of your product. Are we surprised? Should we be surprised? No, I think not, but we shouldn’t be so quick to deny the fact that it’s happening. A lot of folks, many card carrying members of the ‘league of decency,’ deny the implications of a woman moaning her way through a heavy shampoo, her silhouette shown undulating on the steamy shower door, but the rest of us know what that sound is and it isn’t just the appreciation of shiny clean hair.

The reason all of this takes place is inherent. Human beings are arguably the thinking animal, but an animal nonetheless. We have been questionably gifted with a brain and having been so gifted, we have invented all sorts of things to make our lives better, while distancing ourselves further and further from our natural animalistic past; or at least that’s what we’d like to believe. It’s hard to shake some behaviors, even after fifty thousand years of evolving.

With our two essential needs, survival and procreation, we have moved through history attacking and defending whatever we’ve encountered in order to stay alive. Wars are fought over land, wealth, foodstuffs, and water rights in the name of survival; we have to protect the family unit, the tribal unit. No longer the hunter-gatherers of our distant ancestors generation, now living in fixed sites, cities and towns, we fight to survive in an urban or suburban landscape. We developed new concepts derived from our ability to work with abstract thought, but in doing so, we still have never overcome the need to survive and to bear young, and with all probability we never will.

The need to bear young, to reproduce and insure that the species will survive, is the crux of existence for all life forms. This desire to reproduce is seen early in the development of a species, sometimes based on seasonal cycles, sometimes merely based on the advantage of a current situation. Humans, ‘the hairless ape,’ developed an open approach. Whether through evolution or grand design, the female of the human species isn’t required to enter a ‘heat’ in order to facilitate a coupling for the purpose of producing offspring. It has become a matter of choice on her part when approached by a male of the species to either except or reject his advances. It’s a matter of fact in the wild; remember the adage ‘only the strong survive,’ those males showing the best traits and strengths are allowed to mate with the female, thus insuring the best traits will continue into the next generation. It’s just like the hundreds of true life studies we’ve seen on television over the years; the magnificent Stag coming down the mountain to joust with younger males and assure his position as head progenitor. Humans do this too, in a modified version, since we have elevated ourselves to a higher pedestal than the rest of our animal kin, but the outcome is still the same.

The main difference, I observe, may be that you’ll never find a self-respecting Stag hanging out in a bar, trying to hit on a horned and ‘horny’ female counterpart, asking wittily, ‘Hey baby, what’s your sign?’ Yet this is where a great deal of the ‘rutting’ that goes on among the human animal starts out; maybe we haven’t really come as far as we’d like to think we have with our role as ‘civilized man, the king of beasts!’

We spend our lifetimes with SEX at the center of our universe, the unifying force that drives us all; men and women dress to allure, using, perfumes, makeup, and specific clothing to make their intentions known. It all seemed to work pretty damn good up until the last twenty years. Now, because the male has traditionally been thought of as the pursuer, the dominant member of the selection process, our civilized way of thinking now leaves him ridiculed or redressed for what others perceive to be ‘old school’ thoughts about his sexually driven nature.

How did this come to pass? Was it some careful thinking on the part of the wise old members of our society? Or was it more like a current article in Cosmopolitan magazine or Young Ms.? We may never really know, but it’s safe to say it wasn’t a group of men sitting around drinking beer that came up with it. More than likely it was some of those ‘thinking folks’ among us (a dangerous lot) who came to the conclusion that there should be an equality of the sexes, sounds good, but it’s another human attempt to change the natural order of things; something we, as a species do a lot of, but not very successfully; a point that has been illustrated over and over down through our history.

Women should now be able to make the moves on the male of her choice, show some dominant qualities, while the men are now told they need to be gentle and understanding and more in tune with ‘their feminine side.’ Should we be surprised at this? Probably not, because it’s just like humankind to take something as simple and functional as SEX and turn it upside down to make it more ‘civil.’ Impose order on SEX by having us all do our guarded and selective ‘rutting’ quietly behind closed doors instead of nosily and at random in public places. Not only does it take all the fun out of it, but it turns us all into a bunch of guilt ridden anal retentives, a condition that the administrators of the worlds organized religions just love; which is why they are the key proponents of ‘birth without sex;’ it happened once 2000 years ago, so now it’s expected to be the norm. I suppose the fact that conception is taking place in a lab dish is just the next logical extension of this way of thinking. We have finally moved what is the central driving force of the human universe, SEX, to the very edge of manipulated insanity.

It’s funny though, as much as mankind screws around with restricting, changing, rationing, or legislating our sexual urges, the more people will find a new and better way to fool around; if there is any question at all about this happening just look at the huge SEX toy industry that has risen to tease our fancy; so to speak. An industry that has as it’s unwritten motto, ‘Where there is a need, there is a battery powered tool to offer satisfaction or double your money back.’ It all becomes laughable, more of that ‘school boy giggling and guilt,’ when you consider it all to be such a natural act, a joyful and exciting experience and after all is said and done, it comes down to about ten seconds worth of pulsing pleasurable bliss.

So what’s the big deal about SEX? All this for ten seconds of bliss? Maybe we all need to find a hobby?

Your Faithful Reporter - RCat

Smoke

2008-05-26T16:30:00.006-04:00

Smoke
A sweet smoking friend
all rolled in rice paper
enlightens
enriches
this poor tired shell

Give me cool music
a dry white wine of distinction
that graces
and laces
my mind with content

Blue cloud hangs suspended
encircles my head like a halo
this fellow
feels mellow
drifts near sleeps edge

Mama's baking up brownies
the aroma so seductive
chocolaty
sweet munchies
fills me full of grins

Rolling with my sexy lady
sliding through the moment
she giggles
and wiggles
we share another toke

Drifting into inner space
I kiss the lady's sweet lips
she sleeps
we sleep deep
wrapped in earthy smoke

R. C. Arquette 5/17/73

I Learned from the Best

2008-05-15T18:14:00.005-04:00

I grew up
living four doors
down from Peter Pan…
we spent
elementary school
in too many adventures
to recall…
running with
The Lost Boys…
battling pirates
and Indians…

during
my awkward
jr. high school days…
the Marvel superheroes
set up headquarters
a couple blocks
from my folks house…
for awhile
I hung around
the mutant X-Men
and moody Hulk…
but I soon grew bored
with their comic book
routine…

so I found
a summer job mowing
Mr. Hefner’s lawn…
a large estate
in a high end
part of town…
with a big, green lawn…
he tipped real well…
always stopped
to ask how I was doing…
a real class act…

it was an
eye opening
experience for me…
I learned anatomy
from the beauties
that hung out
around his pool…
life seemed grand
and I mistakenly
believed
I had the world
by the short hairs…

when I started
high school
the next year
a new kid…
James Dean…
raced down my street…
into my neighborhood…
and showed me
just how confused
I really was…
the world
was a tough place…
often a cruel place…
I hadn’t seen it…
but I learned quick…
another confused
teenager stumbling
through life’s
mine-fields…

James
gave me a copy
of ‘Catcher in the Rye’…
my eyes were opened…
I learned about angst
and teen rebellion…
and how no one
could understand me…
not the real me…
poor angry me…
I learned to revel
in my pain…

then fate stepped in
and Jimmy checked out
behind the wheel
of his fast car…

and this
sad teen
wannabe
ached for more…

so interests
led me into the
realm of rock n’ roll..
the voice of the
put-upon teen…

and it was
at this time
I started hanging out
at Zappa’ house…
and got into the
intellectual craziness
of his band of
Mothers…

my hair grew…
my mind expanded…
and I was dumped
into a world
of Zen and Tao…
of LSD and Psilocybin…
of Herman Hesse
and Ken Kesey…
of Carlos Castenadas
and Allen Ginsburg…
of Led Zepplin
and the Fugs…

and
when I was finally
squeezed out the
far end of the 60’s…
I’d been across
the country
three times…
been to art school
in the Vieux Carre…
worked the clubs
on the Sunset Strip…
crashed in Berkley…
cruised the Haight…
and sowed those
seeds we heard
about as kids…

today
I can reflect
on my grand education…
and look at where it
has taken me…
at where I’ve been…
and feel fortunate
that I have learned
from the best…

me
and the lost boys…

R. C. Arquette
10/2/07