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Filter by Category : Tag : Date

Dawn of The Dragons

Invictus

Beast Of A Different Burden

Sonbather

The Snowman

The Ejecting Titan

REMINGTON GRAVES

The aesthetic arrogance snides in a scraping exhale whilst

theremin stack in staccato the needed notes for a divine score

that strokes the way past dead leaves

past the living dead in their wheeled cages

in the streets near my home

A stuttering Titan spit forth the dusk above me in puffy white skipping clouds amid

the brazen blues and pastel pinks above a setting sun

that sinks solemnly under man made toxins

although illuminating the otherwise

unseen

Along the palisades lied the lament I purposely paraded at a young age

now a man who writhes at adulthood and longs

for the piercing pains of the childhood void

which can be comforting

when contrasted to

the alternative

 

My echoes delve and return empty handed wanting an existential moment

burdened with the marriage of cinema

 

Enmity

my

enemy

 

Let the oblivious field on which reprobate minds

the pulpitous man proclaimed

stretch and stretch further still

so they may feel

those who are neither hot nor cold

how bold

I thought

to presume such

a

position

 

As I spewed it from my mouth

my blurring feet quondam with relentless eager

now cling to convenience abhorring the fracas

and the failures of the aging carnal machine

O death

where is my head?

O grave

when will I sing?

∞

 

The Reason

REMINGTON GRAVES

Obtuse is an understatement, he thought as he grabbed his briefcase from his luxury car and straightened out his tie. Viciously vapid and exuberant in his exhales, he bit into the butt of his cigarette. The banal routine of family life was provoking a rather putrid insecurity within him. Every lawn, green…every sprinkler in sync. The quietus to his qualms arrived with his quirky wife calling out for him announcing a cooked and waiting meal.

“These potatoes taste like chocolate…earthy,” he said stabbing and scraping at his plate.

“Is that bad,” she asked with baby in her arms.

“Not at all, darling. I love these things. The way you make them is something else.”

“It’s not me, dear, it’s the potatoes. They taste that way.”

“Well then, I might have to cheat on you with these potatoes from time to time. Seeing they don’t need you to win me over.”

“You are something else.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

 

 

“Say, did your boss ever mention that raise today?”she said staring at the sunflower pattern on the glass of the lemonade she was drinking.

“That obtuse bastard’s been avoiding me,” he said taking a sip of his drink next to her on their front porch.

“Ob–what? You really liked those potatoes didn’t you?”

“Never mind. And of course I did, sugar pie.”

“I need to get some more of those soon. It’s nice to see you enjoy my meals.”

“I enjoy all your meals.”

“Yes, but some more than others,” she said listening to the sprinklers.

“I suppose that’s true. Did your brother bring back my tools yet?”

“Oh, shoot, I need to remind him, dear.”

“Yeah, please do. I have that old Triumph in the garage needs a little wrenching,” he said licking the tart from his lips.

“I think the baby is crying, I’ll be right back,” she said standing up and kissing him on the forehead.

“I will be out here.”

 

 

“Excuse me, Sir, sorry to bother you. I just need a few minutes of your time.”

“What?,” he said setting his drink down, “I’m not buying anything.”

“I’m not selling.”

“Then, what can I do for you?”

“I have one question to ask you. Only one.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“But you have to promise that you’ll give it a real moment’s thought.”

“What is this? Do I know you, buddy?”

“No, you do not know me. We have never met. You don’t have to give me your answer. Just promise me you will think about it on your own time.”

“Sure, I guess…why not? Let’s hear it.”

“If another version of yourself, in another dimension, was going to commit suicide, what would be the reason.”

“The reason?”

“Yes. What would be the reason for the suicide.”

“This is kinda strange, buddy. I’m not liking this too much.”

“No need for worry, Mister. I’m leaving. But you promised to answer that question. Do it tonight. Have a good day now. You and your lovely wife.”

“Same to you.”

 

 
“Who were you talking to, honey?”

“Some strange fellow wearing a life-preserver. Talked funny. Had a baseball hat that read: “Life’s A Beach.” How the hell is life a beach?”

“Some of the undesirables crawl this way from the other side of the tracks sometimes. Who knows.”

“My show on yet?”

“Yeah, some band named The Humanimals are gonna be on.”

“That Ed Sullivan and his music guests. I’ll be there in a minute, sugar. Get me a cold one will you?”

“Sure thing, Daddy.”

“That’s a good girl.”

∞

 

 

 

 

Notable Quotes

STEPHEN KING

“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.”

 

 

 

Working On It

REMINGTON GRAVES

I drive and I lean to the right always

and it makes me wonder if it is part of the reason for my incessant back pain

 

I take my time responding to any given question

understanding that if someone wants to hear what I have to say, they’ll wait

 

Expensive watches, designer shoes, coveted fragrances, soaps made delicately under a full moon by the hands of

indigenous people of wherever

 

The sight of coupons makes me cringe

 

Chewing gum loudly, at times, I sit back and kick my feet up, if furniture and folk permits

 

Designer coffee has ruined gas station bean juice for me from here until my death

 

I check the closing hours at the local bookstore

maybe I will purchase a book I’ll never read

 

I get home from a long day

ignore the dishes that are crawling out of the sink and groaning my name painfully

 

The hours go by

 

And I sit, here at 2:14 a.m. with my feet atop my ottoman

wearing my back brace and ignoring my extravagant watch for the time and read it from my lap top monitor instead

 

The truth is, I’m a poor boy, one who survived poverty a la Gregor Samsa from the malignant dumps of Matamoros

and will always feel the need to buy one more thing

or two

 

I sing alone and dance to Liszt

throwing Oreos into the air to try to catch them orally

 

ignoring the back pain

avoiding the doctor visit

denying the void inside

 

The record stopped and the needle keeps kicking up dust

 

I used to romanticize the gods above, watching me      taking delight      being entertained     feeling compassion

 

It is I who watches

It is I who delights

I entertain myself

 

Compassion…well, I’m

working

on

it

∞

The Ringing Bell

REMINGTON GRAVES

Her mother was bigger than most girl’s mothers. Everyone at school would approach her and ask her if they could come over and play when the day was done. She knew it was their curiosity that inspired the facade of friendship. She would simply say, “yes.”

“Mother, I’m home. I brought another friend with me to play. We are both hungry…is there something we can eat, mom? Did you cook today?”

“Maybe she’s not home.”

“No, she’s home. She’s always here. I have to beg her to leave the house, you don’t understand.”

“I don’t know, maybe she’s busy. Or she might want to be left alone.”

“No, it’s okay. She’s around here somewhere.”

“I should leave.”

“No, don’t go. I’m sure, she’s here somewhere.”

“Gracie, did you call for me?”

“There you are, mom. Patience and I would like to eat something. Is there anything made?”

“Maybe, but I can also put something together quickly for you girls. Sound good?”

“Yes, please, mom, would you?”

“Of course, honey. Anything for my little girl. Hello, Patience, I am Gracie’s mom.”

“Yes, everybody knows who you are.”

“Oh, they do, do they?”

“Oh, I was only saying …well, you’re hard to miss.”

“Like a building? Or a tree?”

“Yes–no, no…I meant, you’re hard to forget.”

“Can we just eat, mother?”

“Hold on, Gracie, I am getting to know your little friend.”

“I didn’t mean anything by–“

“Oh, no offense taken, Patience. I understand completely.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. What other girl do you know has a pink hippopotamus for a mother?”

“You’re actually the only one, Mrs. Potamios.”

“I know, sweetie, and I want you to know I take no offense from you or the other children when they want to take a closer look.”

“You don’t?”

“Not at all. I enjoy the company. And my little girl should socialize with all the wonderful people this town has to offer.”

“Can we have something to eat now, please, mom?”

“Sure thing, dear. What would you like? There is still some chicken and pasta from last night, which is tasty. But, like I said, I could make something quickly.”

“That sounds good with me, mom. Patience?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t have that. I’m a vegetarian.”

And as they stared at each other in silence, a wasp outside hovered above the yellow rosebush, a line of ants traveled across the street, an emerald-green lollipop melted in the sun atop the sidewalk, and the ringing bell and jingle from the ice cream truck could be heard fading away.

∞

 

 

Honey I’m Home

REMINGTON GRAVES

Mr. Smith drove home from work, parked in the driveway, and opened the door with a smile and belted, “Honey, I’m home!”

He felt uneasy…straightened out his tie, cleared his throat and repeated it a little louder. There was no scent of dinner dancing in the air. He could not hear anything sizzling in the frying pan.

Not a single night in their marriage had something so extraordinary occurred.

Smith walked into the bedroom, the kitchen, the restroom, the back yard and nothing–she was nowhere. That red lipstick smile was not there to greet him while those crazy arms would grip around him.

The mirror did not lie, as he caught a glimpse of himself as he reentered the living room, he was white as a sheet. Sweat on his brow. Crooked tie.

I need to sit, he thought, as he set his suitcase down not realizing his hand had not let go since he got home. He reached behind the lamp next to the television set and grabbed his secret stash. A pack of cigarettes he had been hiding for weeks now came in handy. Maybe this will help me calm my nerves.

The sound of him exhaling his lucky’s and a fly somewhere buzzing near by became in rhythm with the grandfather clock. All was still. Children could be heard outside arguing over a stick of gum.

 

He almost jumped out of his skin as the telephone rang. Without thinking he reached and answered, “ Smith residence.”

“Mr. Smith, your wife is in critical condition. She is here at the downtown hospital. She is in critical condition, you must hurry!”

“I will be right there,” he said standing up and digging in his pocket for his car keys.

The old chap jumped in the automobile, turned the ignition, stepped on the gas and was gone.

“I’m here to see my wife, I’m Mr. Smith. Can you please help me?” he growled at the lady behind the counter.

“Down the hall, Mr. Smith. Last door on the left.”

“Thank you,” he managed to get out as he ran.

Almost ripping the door off the hinges, he clamored,” What in god’s name has happened to my wife?”

“Mr. Smith, I am Doctor Vinonatra. I need you to get a hold of yourself, man. Your wife is in another room.”

“Please, doctor, is she all right?!”

“Have a seat, Mr. Smith. I am not going to mince words. I’m gonna give it to you straight.”

“Yes, doctor, go on.”

 

“Like I said on the telephone, your wife is in critical condition. She has been in a terrible car accident.”

“Oh, god, no.”

“She was injured quite badly, Sir. But I’m not going to bull@#%$ you–I’m gonna give it to you straight!”

“Yes.”

“She went through the windshield, and was then hit by an oncoming car, and suffered severe trauma. She has lost her eyes…will now more than likely have amnesia…lost her legs…”

“What?!”

“In other words, you’re going to have to clothe her, bathe her, feed her, wipe her ass, and remind her on a daily basis who you are and who she is.”

 

“Oh, god, Doc, no please!”

“Dude, I’m just fucking with you…”

“What’s that?!”

“She’s dead.”

∞

 

 

Holy Hell

REMINGTON GRAVES

I used to be a born-again christian, or so I thought. I prayed, tithed, studied the “good word”, treated my neighbor with kindness, compassion and respect. I was generous to many a fellow traveler. At times, I would embark on journeys to “spread the good news”, hitch-hiking from place to place without care for money or a place to stay. Real book of Acts type shit.

During this surreal chapter of my life, I also believed in a place the world refers to as “Hell.” Yes, laugh it up, you should. An adult man, fearing an everlasting place of burning and torment. What the fuck was in that Kool-aid?

 

Time has caressed my locks leaving gray, shimmering streaks behind and I realize…I still do–I still believe in Hell.

This is where I almost lose you. Just give me a second before you yawn and check your cell phone to appease the addiction you’d rather call “muscle memory.”

Sheol, as it is written in Hebrew in the Old Testament of the Bible, is simply the grave. Of course, denominations are splintering by the week because of interpretive dogma. What is literal and metaphor tend to be in the eye of the besmoldered. The point is, real love doesn’t have to use fear as a tool.

I believe Love is an open cage, with the freedom to allow any and all you claim you love, to come and go as they please.

 

The Hell I believe creeps in like a fog…while I sit and finish my breakfast and reach for my boots.

Suddenly, my head feels ten feet under water. A ringing in my ear pierces through my skull and fill the room with a reverberating raucous. Invisible demons start hammering at my head.

I stand and walk gently to the restroom, for my place has become a rocking vessel atop a tempest.

The vomit comes furiously and incessantly.

A heavy dark blanket wraps me up as I lay beside the toilet, slobber streaks like webs.

Chunks of breakfast swimming in the battery acid in the toilet bowl.

Heart pounding.

Sweat.

Fluids and matter coming out of both ends simultaneously.

Yes, I know, some of my best poetry.

I remind myself to breathe calmly, I know the score, I’ve been here before.

My eyes close gently and open, except now I am in the bathtub.

Who knows how the hell I got there.

 

Time.

Water.

Small bites of anything that doesn’t cause a gag reaction.

Time.

More water.

Another bite.

And I look across my velvet comforter as if it were a vast meadow.

I no longer wait for the deer of the dawn.

 

The dawn itself will do.

 

∞

 

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