Ricky Man (on Youtube)

Ricky Man

I knew Ricky Man.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

I knew him when the Earth was flat.

I knew him when the moon was holy.

...when Coca Cola was cheap;

when he sat slumped,

face down, drunk,

cooking his brain in some second hand philosophy book,

college of life burning late on his alchemical tank,

and adding fuel in small white powder sniffs.

-Breaking into one of his familiar tiffs with the tiny bar lady,

the one he swears he fucked.

..but I knew he was as gay as a seven rand note.

And he smiled at me with his knowing eyes,

the only times I swear he saw the world soberly.

I knew Ricky Man.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

Ricky Man smoked a pipe.

A glass pipe.

Called it his caterpillar stick.

And he told stories like a magician.

His teeth clinking on glass,

like a groom calling his audience to class,

and we small children sat at his feet,

in a long forgotten street,

and listened to spinning stories:

of long ago alleyways, brothels,

and that one cop that owed him one.

He curled over the edge of his table,

and drummed the story into the wood,

with the ball of his palm,

stuttering through the haze of drink,

and the jagged segues of coca daze,

his haphazard bedtime mazelike stories,

that twisted around you,

like carousels of living horses.

We didn’t believe a word he’d say,

but it was all about the way he'd said it.

I knew Ricky Man.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

His foot sticking out this way,

fingers pointing accusingly at every audience member:

till one by one we were shot down,

one drunk,

one coked up,

one just tired from a long day.

Us, just as hazy as he was,

boiled out by the familiar heat of a small town sun.

And he’d finally fizz out and pass out,

kicked out for sleeping,

or puking on himself,

he just needed to get up.

He just needed to find his feet.

One last person to greet.

...and as he crossed the street.

...well.

He didn’t see the car coming.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

I knew Ricky Man with his soda ash coat.

I knew Ricky Man with his blood libation to mother night.

I knew Ricky Man before we spoke of him in backwards facing sentences.

I knew Ricky Man.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

-o0o-

On a moonless night

On a moonless night I sing to you:

a song of wind and sky,

of water in the ocean deep,

with a hope-enchanted lullaby.

On a moonless night I sing to you:

a song of breath and air,

of Zephyr friend and Naiad girl,

would make such a lovely pair.

Oh sing to me you endless wind,

that knows the oldest melody.

A heart so free that soars within,

I call to you to dance with me.

On a moonless night I sing to you,

a song of dreams and sleep,

where I lay down may I think of you;

my watcher in the deep.

-o0o-

Thank you...

How do you thank the ground and stones?

How do you repay years of protection?

When I’ve known a thousand homes,

but none like this...

sanctuary without exception.

How can I thank four walls, a roof?

How can I thank a yard?

How do I offer the handless proof?

or give thanks to the sightless...

with all my regard?

-o0o-

Moving away

It is my last day in my old house

It’s empty now, and everything’s gone

And the house echoes a lot

Like vacant memories ringing from bare wall to bare wall

I’m sad and I can’t help it

This is my house

This is where I grew old alone

This is where grew my heart of stone

And had it shattered

By a thousand warm hugs and cups of coffee

This is how I learned to be human

Moving away is hard

This was the first place I called home

-o0o-

Walker

he has his stick
ready, two, three, flick
down, down they go
before the walker
I see him coming
soon now, soon
old man Azrael
comes to take his due
we had a good run
before the yellow sun
the child and animal
hand in hand
couldn't have had more love
if they had it planned

-o0o-

A Washing Spell

Let the darkness go.
Put it down.
Don’t let make a peep.
Don’t let it make a sound.
Put the darkness on the ground.
Put the darkness on the ground.
Unwork each tendril one by one,
strand by strand,
where it sticks in your eye,
your heart, your mind, your hand.
Count to ten.
Clap twice.
Turn yourself around.
Put the darkness on the ground.
Put the darkness on the ground.
Pull your friends in close.
Make a cup of tea.
Stir it seven times around.
Put the darkness on the ground.
Put the darkness on the ground.
Pull your friends in close.
Make a cup of tea.
Repeat to the sky,
This is not of me.
This is not of me.

Put the darkness on the ground.
Put the darkness on the ground.

-o0o-

She of the Winter Sun

The spirit of the Winter sun,
is sitting on my back door.
She’s singing in a language,
I thought only I could speak.
She told me things I never knew before:
things about me and you,
things about you,
things about you...
For a moment I thought I could peek into her mind,
seek out the little things we left behind,
but she smiled and stepped lightly from off my back door,
her feet landing nimbly on the terra cotta floor,
kissed me so gently,
like a memory of you,
like a memory of you...
I gave her a twig of dandelion,
a handful of crushed nutmeg,
and off she flew,
Back into the winter sky,
singing of you,
singing of you...

-o0o-

The Song of Khyre

In the undying lands is a city so bright,

that the grass and the trees shine with radiant light,

and the sun and the stars bow down at her grace,

and the will of the Goddess watches over that place.

At the peak of the Mount Khyre where all life was born,

is the will of the Lady, the Queen of the Dawn.

When the world is besieged by the Osphur's disgrace,

the will of the Goddess watches over that place.

At the throne of the All-Mother light is reclaimed,

evil is cleansed and terror unnamed.

Where the heavens and earth share one time and space,

the will of the Goddess watches over that place.

-o0o-

To Charl with Love

I don't know if I ever posted this here before... sincerely too lazy to look right now:

To Charl with Love (written on this day 2017)

Body Language

I wish people spoke about bodies the same way they visit a crush's house.

"Hey, Ms. Smith,

I like your son,

but have you thought about having your garage removed."

"Hey, Ms. Smith,

I like your daughter,

Is it okay if I dig in your fridge,

and rifle through your underwear drawer."

"Hey, Ms. Smith,

I like your child,

I'm not rude if I stomp on your carpet with muddy boots,

I'm just making a point."

People are more respectful of buildings than they are of bodies.

My body isn't open for commentary.

If I don't know you, don't touch me.

You don't get an opinion, I'm not your welcome mat.

My body is sovereign.

You're not even a guest in this house. -o0o-

Today I wish magic upon you

(Unpublished middle-of-the-night poem written 01/02/2018)

Today I wish magic upon you,

to sway your hips, to move your feet,

to fill your chanterelle heart with song and love,

to remind you, you are no alone.

I wish upon you that kind of magic,

The one that happens at night,

when you read and you’re transported.

The magic that happens when you hear a song,

and your skin is on fire,

as if you’re drawn to the sky by every hair on your body.

I wish magic on you so strong,

that you can set people’s hearts aflame,

and leave them wondering what just hit them.

I wish magic upon you,

the kind that accompanies the slow healing of old wounds,

the kind that keeps you alive,

the kind that reminds you daily,

you’re good; you’re beautiful.

I wish that magic upon you,

so when you sleep,

you dream of good things.

-o0o-

Clearing, Part 2

"They chose their own paths,

and how they know it well.

They know their own hearths,

and floors upon which they dwell.

They made their own bed,

they carved their own stones.

Be careful of the dead:

they hold court upon your bones."

-o0o-

Clearing (on Poetry Potion)

Head over to Poetry Potion to see my new poem, "Clearing".

-o0o-

Prophesy

There is darkness in the world,

but I am not of the darkness.

There is pain,

but I am not the pain itself.

I am wounded,

but I am not the wound.

I was wronged,

but I am just.

I was hurt,

but I am holy.

I was killed,

but I rose again.

Of course, you who wronged me,

you see me as broken and cursed,

you have no way of seeing me...

as other from what you did.

But I am greater than you or your crimes.

You will bow before me,

and then you will be forgotten.

I promise you this,

because it has already happened.

-o0o-

Scatterplot Boy

Scatterplot boy with a numerical heart:

worried, anxious, and bent out of joint;

lost the plot and ripped apart.

Where do you rest your head tonight?

Your constant concern and anxious mind;

worried the world might leave you behind.

Graphing the world point-by-point.

Where do you rest your head tonight?

Heavy soul, take small respite.

Allow your bones a restful night.

Lay your head down upon my chest.

Give in to sleep and take some rest.

What lays beyond my hearth but spite?

Where do you rest your head tonight?

-o0o-

Whore Prophet

Elijah.
You talk big for a murderer and a misogynist;
water-cooler-gossip,
snickering,
telling your bros about what a whore I am,
while I made miracles,
filling bellies in the heart of the desert,
and wrote thaumaturgy on the hearts of children.
You talk big about the false prophets,
but you carry middle-management hatred,
like ring binders in your mouth,
hatred that boiled over and slaughtered my kin,
with no provocation, for no reason,
but the name of your god of war.
But remember, it was I who chased you into the desert,
I who put you to wandering,
I who made you weep for death.
In the end even your god sent upper-management down
to take you away:
a PR disaster not even the high heavens were ready for.
Tell Elisha we won’t be any easier on him.
Tell him my name is Jezebel: Whore Prophet.
If he comes for me I’ll eat him and feed his bones to my dogs.

-o0o-