Old friends

I texted an old friend tonight, Pat. We've more stories than frito's has lays. No matter how drunk or stupid we were, we could never offend each other Hell, we even shared an apartment in Tampa Bay.
This was my second try. And my last.
And it's not just him.
I wonder, have i changed? Or not changed? Or not changed right?
I like old friends and the times we had.
Reformed? I can do reformed.
More fucked then ever?
We can work it out.
But it seems i've become the skeleton in the closet to all who ever called me friend.
I wonder if this is unique only to me.
It doesn't feel good but i am what i am and sometimes what i was and sometimes what i've become.
Apparently, this is beyond the manual.
Once again, i find myself wondering about this word "friend" and the value of its worth.
Actually, i'm wondering about the value of several words i've held in esteem.
I'm going to miss Pat.
But now i wonder, were we actually just two strangers that shared a time?

Good mornin america

How are ya?
Don'tcha know me?
I'm your wayward son
I've come to bring you truck axles
For your war machines
In afghanistan

The girl with the clipboard knows
Or does she?
Little matter

All i hear in the new dawn
Is a train whistle
And cars humming a distant freeway

Radio stations
Playing the same silly shit
To people sipping coffee and eating mcmuffins as they do their part
To ensure society prospers

Banks and malls
Are turning on and tuning in
And i fight the taliban
With my truck axles on only
Three hours sleep and
No bronze star

Little matter to me
And the loons
On a still northern lake

We just hear the train whistle
That will never find afghanistan
And sing along in our own
Wayward way

Good mornin america
How are ya?

Pirate

Well,
lying in the grass
Looking up through a gentle tree
Whispering secrets in the breeze
Wisonsin feels kind, just now

Wondering, should i plot a course?

Trouble is,
I only have Jack Sparrow's compass
And it always leads me
To storms

God, how i love the storms!

But this ship, so broken and battered,
How many tempests can she drive?
I lean a mast and watch my wake
From the stern,
And think of the dusty charts
Rolled and parched

That was never my way

Some men are born to storms
And crazy compasses
Perhaps,
Such am i

So do i go bare poles and drift?
Or full sail, tattered and torn?
Could make a run for the harbour
Sell stories from the pier
And let the storms rage without me

Feel that breeze?
She's stiffening
The clouds billow and dare me come

Truth is,
I don't know any other way

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more office pics

dawn

sunset

the other side

soft ending

sunshower

time to wake up

over the edge

yawn

Some Road Pics

crop duster

once a pride and joy

tic toc

lake city mn

Hope n fear

I hoped once
But then wisdom
Taught me to fear my hope

So i threw hope and fear
Into the ocean
And became wise

Wisdom balanced the books

There was no up or down,
Win or lose
Hope or fear
Just order

Little pink houses
Where well fed wise men
Congratulate each other
For their good manners

I'm no longer wise
Well fed, good mannered.

I hope to be a bird
Leaping a nest on untried feathers
A new born sea turtle
Scrambling sand to sea
Into an ocean of dangers

I fear the alternative

broken fence

She's been eyein it
For some time now
No secret really

That lush pasture
The cool blue
Waterin hole
The dandy stallion
And the weathered fence
That lost its hold

I aint gone out there
Haven't looked
But i gotta feeling

There's somethin in the air

Can't blame her
Look at the dead seed
Lyin at her hooves
The dirty water hole
The dreamy gelding

There's somethin afoot
Shoulda fixed that fence
And what?
Take away her chance?

Can't really be sure
Just yet
But last night
When the moon was full
And stardust hung heavy
I think she jumped the fence

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Dusk

Sitting under a harvest moon
I guess
Trucks
A thousand lost souls
Wondering when their dreams died
And did anyone show up
For the wake
I'm parked on the edge
Of nowhere
And feel at home

There's a lawn chair
A moon, a smoke
A beer, and me

Don't know where i'm
Goin tomorrow
Don't really care

Truck is tired
So am i
But siler city NC
Can do that to ya

i have a sweater
To give away
So i have a purpose

And with a little luck
Maybe a tomorrow

If not
That's ok

The other thousand
Won't miss me

Of this
I'm glad

hello moon

What a moon!
Didja see it?
Holy men say
God put a rainbow in the sky

But where is one
When you need it?
Can you reach it? Touch it?
This moon touches me

Rainbows are of promises
Hopes, beauty
But what of the likes
Of someone like me?

A cold dusty rock
That reflects
And is contrary
To anothers beauty

I drive into the sun
But reluctantly so

Beauty burns
But the moon lays cool
Over my broken shoulders

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It's a good time to walk

A Good Time To Walk

Anytime is really

The reluctant crunch
Of fresh snow granting passage

The soft mud
Lining a trail of daring
Wildflowers

The august trail
well worn

Along abandoned shores
All have a season,
Know a purpose

But September
That first real chill
When the first flannel

finally feels right

The trail of gold along
The far off sound of
A plodding combine

The lone rifle's echo

A harbinger of
The rays of remembrance

Rivers seem slow and tired

And up in the grove

free of mosquitoes,

The first wood slips
In a rusty stove and
A good morning coffee warms
From a stained cup

The marigolds are gone now
A new season,
-A good one
Takes hold
It's a good time for a walk

~rick

Where the night ends

The sign said Club Sensation
Nashville just looks the other way
Gabes was locked tighter than
Marthe Stewart's ass and
The Rusty Spoke was closed
For a meeting.
No windows on the sensation
Just glass doors painted black and
A big sign barring all weapons
Yeah, right
There were several tough lookin
Brothers sportin colours on the curb.
Naturally,
I went in
Tin foil ashtrays n a too blonde
Barmaid
I was home.
Got lost looking for the bathroom
And found a room with
A couch, a guy, and a girl
They were cool
It was cool
The guy spinning tunes
Knew his stuff
The sisters swayed n floated
Later, walking the jungle
Of nashville,
A white chick was from
Out of nowhere by my side
She swayed too,
But not from music
"i ain't no crack whore n i don't
Shoot up. See."
And she showed me her arms
She had a beer in a paper bag
And i gave her a smoke as she
Told me lies in high speed slur.
As i veered off and watched
Her walk
I wondered where the night ends.

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Feel it?

I do
Even in alabama

The villagers know
You can see it in their eyes
The old women
Of oaken biceps
Scrub on their washboards
But the worry looks up

The old men
Lean to the jams
Seeing something
Beyond the crimson rise

The children are nervous
Edgy
And the dogs pace

I climb a hillside familiar
And look, but only feel

Its a rise
Like a deep ocean belch
That echos only
To itself
And those it swallows

The earth will twitch
Rumble low
Creep
To a grand shaking

To run, to hide
Is pointless
Its coming
Its alrready here
Can you feel it?
I can

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Another morning

Another morning
Another mile,
This is where i belong
The time, not the place

The sky greets me pink
And kisses me tender
My window is down
And pre-dawn
Blows me perfectly ragged

Lightfoot sings early morning rain
And i start to smile
Kevin welch sings early summer rain
And i'm almost there,
Almost home
Not the time, the place

Always the music
Absent of it
I don't exist

I have my coffee
My narrow look
That never reaches
A destination

Sad, sad rick
They tsk tsk

If i could just put him on my shelf
By the window,
Next to the goldfish
Then he'd be happy

I think i like
That my brand of happy
Is understood
By so few

If i were your pet rock
I'd grow legs
Throw myself at your fish bowl

I'd grow arms
And masturbate
On your pillow

Then ears,
To hear the music

See,
I'm already there

You just don't like the mess

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Buildings

Is it saturday night
Or sunday morning?
A bit of both
Not enough of either,
I decide
The moonless black
Doesn't argue
So my thoughts press on

I'm somewhere between
Tulsa and st.louis
I think
Does it matter?
Not to me

I look to buildings
That line the night
And wonder

Why do i like those
That are one story
tucked neath maples
With a light or two
As opposed
To those knowing height,
Life-prosperity?

they seem, to me
The girl
No mother wishes
For her son

A place with a curb
I might have a smoke on
Without getting shooed

A place stray dogs meet
To make
More stray dogs

The big four story motels
And physicians homes
That flex their walls
in diamonds and pearls
Have too many
Everythings
And not enough anythings
For me
And the stray dogs

Just too much plantation
For trespassing
Gypsies like us

I've now run out of saturday
And sunday haunts
The dawn

Maybe near wichita
Maybe not
Does it matter?
Not to me
On this moonless night

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Living

In the job i now have, I find myself at many factories and other such industrial nightmares. I watch men and women build engines in Cleveland, and wonder.

They will come in everyday and don their hard hats, ear plugs, and safety glasses. They will start their shift at a certain time and lunch at also a precise time.

They will finish their day, Drive to the bank, grocery store, bar for a drink, and then go home.

They will eat pork chops and beans. They will watch American idol. They will shower.

Then they will sleep.

There is little danger and little risk in all this, and a million factories and products exist to support this lifestyle.

Three hundred years ago, men and women searched out new lands. New ways to live. A man like Kit Carson would rise when he awoke, do what needed being done, and spend his daylight knowing he could be killed by any number of possibilities at any time.

Narcissa Whitman for God in Oregon

The Donners for hope in the Sierras

It's just the way it was.

No Doubt progress has been wonderful and Kit would applaud jumbo jets, but I wonder if we haven't lost the art of living in our quest for comfort.

Henk Thinking Of Home

I've been thinking of home more than ever.

Everybody knows the Odyssey written by Homer about 3000 years ago. It is the classic story of the search to the well of happiness and enlightenment. The adventures are all traps and obstacles which we meet on our way to self-realization. During the voyage Odysseus loses all his former ideas of thinking to come back in the end with nothing.

Back in the western hemisphere I reflect about the past but also about the future, actually more about the future than the past because the past has been and -next- is the future. When you look at my geographical position I am more or less farthest away from “home”. But I feel home everywhere I am. Still “home” means something else. Like everybody I am on my way home. Lets forget -everybody- and focus on myself; I am on my way home.

Nothing you get for free. All you have to learn, you learn the hard way. You learn the way as a warrior girds himself for the fight. You need four arms; readiness, fear, respect and confidence. You make a big mistake when you do it otherwise. Because you are not sure if you can tell the story or correct it. With these four weapons you can never loose, because when you fight with the right arms every lost is only a lost game about which you cannot lament.

Dwelling too long with yourself, causes a tremendous weariness. The way is the Way ahead. Ahead to a new destination. That destination is on the edge of yourself. On the edge of the world. That destination is the way home.

Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. (Psalm 23:4)

Henk De Velde

I find myself disagreeing with Henk on this. I don't believe fear is a useful arm for battle. I believe it is a useful arm for survival, and for protecting others and ourselves, but is that the battle.

If we are on our way home and must earn the way by the scars we sport, then I want my journey to culminate in going over the edge. Fear will never let me do it. I believe readiness, respect and confidence will bring us to this home but I would call readiness willingness. I would define confidence as an acknowledgement that consequences must come from such a journey and an acceptance of them. Respect I should leave as is.

but I suppose I am just fucked as I've always suspected.
~rick