Rhythms archived:
Varied, contrasting and and unusual shapes of experiences and thoughts in the form of non-traditional poetry.
Awakened
by LJ Frank
An old crumpled map
carried by the wind to the windshield of his car
upon which a route was drawn by pen
with marked points of interest
and for no other reason than a change in direction
a smile appeared on his face
towards an unexpected moment
followed by a seductive, mysterious text message
and the excited quiet of the uncertain
and a possible romantic rhythm of life
yet upon arrival he found the place
filled with stones, bricks and mud
where a former building may have existed
and he began to wonder
whether it had all been a dream
when he heard footsteps behind him
and felt a hand on his shoulder
he turned around to see who touched him
and was awakened.
* * *
In Your Praise
by Lisa Marie Popp
Look, the dandelions
and their seeds,
how wild the shoots, willows in March
and a cloud-as if weather taught progress—
shifts the ducks inland.
Your light meter flickers.
Eels that were on the track of cow
stop for two seconds,
and pray, till it liquefies,
to the milk: a gritty photo.
I make a mark, erase it with the next.
The chickens, nuns, birds, the scarecrows
And coming home, talked into the ground radical,
if I went faster, mushrooms came to meet me:
love engendering heavenward.
Look, the running half horse accelerates
the snail it straddles.
Look how the cooking woman in me
squeezes lemons with her swollen had,
See what I exclude.
Your changing shutters.
Your little handbags of pills
and clenched tears…
Jesus, snap the footsteps,
the remnants, the bottles & my cigarette butts
which I, for days, honor you
and prove myself – the Smoke.
Little obsession slip of a thing,
but it eats and drinks
what I provide: the lettuce (with onion)
once exposed, a rapid brush sketch,
and mystified…(that’s mental exploitation;
only entrepreneurs gabble of art.)
Crashing apples.
The silence, teeth after.
Have I bequeathed.
Your release now, now and Now
Agfa color, agfa color declare the ducks
Colored on shallow water.
But my dream is gray-etched
and rained out on both bank of the river
fugitive horizons…
Suddenly (again) feeling
Stutter on fresh paper,
As if your angels, the flies, had
no quarrel here.
Face to face they stand, estranged,
wait for the fluke, form a legend…
He wiped the sweat off with hi napkin,
and handed down his face.
Evening tide, I keep on drawing,
So that the flood,
This, that, you & you too, figured into the sand,
(if like dust I could, myself no longer understanding me.)
Whatever crowds in, heap up, accumulates
Whatever brings a space all its own
Now I am twenty-one and still am amazed…
Look how freely in this space, I am,
and sieve the blackness, gray, gray,
the compulsion that insists on white.
Look at the closed eye
Look at the doll, now the visitors have gone
Look at the table used
The bones of the bones
Carefully, the light touch:
in your praise.
***
Ice-Pick Intellect
by Lisa Marie Popp
The day after the winds went underground
I gasped for breath
While you rode an icon surfboard
to the school of green waves
where you met your heart’s desire
and locked it in a cage.
Envy, the dark plum, still
on the windowsill
as your voice spoke
as soft as crayon
drawing doorways on the land,
search for the ice ax on virgin sand
As you pause in the pale,
did you know
you’re for sale?
The dreams are rolling
in broad daylight
the sun beats down
on the bait you bite
While you dwell in the dark we
go running
in the blare and glare of noon,
in envy of your enticing serenity,
You, who find peace in ways most opportune
Only chilled indifference
I detect
in burning ice-pick intellect
like the sky
is a silent blue shout
you are iambic doubt without
any hope of intervention
You are moved
to an assumption
as sterile dry bones
on park benches flash
like pretty preconception
of lace-bodice dancing daughter
When she needed you the most
You were in the ice water
Of the many nightmares
you’ve made
the worst you’ve saved,
it’s the one
you see yourself exchanging
not changed, but changing
as you melt the days
they drain over you
like truth,
diamond nights are wild and cold
that’s no way
to spend your youth
Faceless on the Boulevard of Mirrors
rough water
so blackly deep with fears,
iced-out into hypodermic terrors
conspiring as whisper
when they expect to shout
A wrinkle’s single
sublime undertone
made you go down on doubt,
although your reflection
is undiluted by comparison
your photograph is never free
And Icarus dreams
that never found the sea
stay on poisonous lakes as we
watch Time,
the solemn clown, vow oblivion,
and we lie
on your shadows, ready to run
llliquid tears
smear illegible years,
your were perpetually in motion
and indelible
that summer you sat high
on your golden ass,
Staying ice-bound
inhaling grass,
that evanescent evening edible
suffering
not insanity,
only vanity
Like a pasteurized Statue of Liberty
clutching a blue-moon ice-cream cone,
Your eyes are two extra zeros
on every frozen telephone,
Living on the edge is a kick
When your intellect is ice-pick.
***
On Ramps and Other Accelerations/Ends
by Lisa Marie Popp
You are the man
on the window ledge
who jumps out of the window
for some air,
a Salvador Dali stalking fresh models
to accelerate in the darkness,
immortalize, on backseat canvas
shake-up the world with car-window hair
like a blue streak
on the highway’s welcome mat,
Nothing rises as quickly as you
Through your synthetic sleep
night slides by like a submarine,
morning lies across your feet like a cat,
Shooting an arrow dream
in this wildfire scene
you are blindfolded, stoned-blind
in sizes too large
black coat with uneven long sleeves
monumental as a barge
socked into obtuse Mississippi
gathering light from the bridges behind.
Reborn as you are
fixed in a breathless flash
by a stream sheathed in amethyst
brushed fire-red eyes in stark
stare that followed foundry ash
to asphalt coolness in floating smoke,
Living a far and away joke
getting lost you chose,
instead of getting free
as thin-printed lips still
press against a bottle of a Irish Rose
where you once told me
was your favorite place after dark.
The pieces on your earth
spelled Pepsi Cola,
bearing billboard trees
reflected in tide pool eyes like
the cracked handles of bottomless cups
and you are a leaf
falling onto the water
your breath that the wind floats down
Drifting, a ripple on the surface of the night,
Legs kick with the urge to drown.
When you put pedal to the medal
You were the stapler, I was the staple
All I knew as a piece of paper the truth crumpled,
All the truth I knew was a crumbled piece of paper.
My eyes are getting used to dark shades,
I wear protestant sunglasses as I stare on
laundered clouds stacked high,
sandwiched between the deep of sea and sky,
Distant as the corners of a room
Impendent as your impenetrable doom,
while I know this blueness so soon fades.
***
Scratches
by Lisa Marie Popp
Nothing yields here.
The attitudes, the moods, the habits,
it’s a way that worships and fears change
A cemetery with lights,
and the people are all born dying.
But not you, not yet.
What are you afraid of?
Arrows that fly in the night?
You put your feet in the ocean
when I asked you to meet me
and you ran away.
Have I imagined freedom?
In a world of ashes
wings flow out of flames,
but never know fire
Like eating jam out of a jar,
but really only tasting the spoon.
We are half-sleeping in the womb of time.
Like a virgin
showing off her dress, mountains
with fresh fallen snow
Arms and mouth go numb
sipping life through a straw.
* * *
The politician
by L J Frank
He grew up savvy next to a gravel road
with a singular weed growing in a narrow crevice
an untreatable genetic brain scar tissue
he was un-affected by compassion
As a man child he traveled
plane, limo, suv and pickup truck
another city, meeting, message
with others of similar faith
money to fill the empty wallet he brought along
one’s choice of words predetermined by his wiring,
the aphrodisiac of power and filtered thoughts.
He understood his wants
with whom he wished to abuse or refuse
and was bound to have come to Jesus meetings
intimidate and fear were tools
and core to his repertoire,
to accumulate whatever
genitals filled with a fluid like testosterone
the steroid hormone was a transmittable infection
too willing to ejaculate and spread,
a misplaced birthing occurred
as he stole from his friends.
The oath of office was a pretext for his agenda
to honor cunning and deception
towards the final chapter of his delusion
something else had taken hold
the children of his lies took to the streets.
.
Too late for redemption
the wells of the minds were now poisoned
pondering
while another’s blood was dripping on the ground
nearby was a detached arm with an outstretched hand,
yet he never experienced an awakening
no insights were to be found within
for none of it applied,
the infected died with the cremation of the civil
the ashes of a bad dream arrived.
* * *
The “open road” is a state of mind
by L J Frank
Packed my aging sports car,
drove to Toronto
with its international cast
through the tier of East coast states.
A chat
is a reason needed?
translations from French and Chinese
Detroit, the next stop
a city reinventing itself,
Chicago beckoned,
an architectural invitation
farther west
then across the prairies
to the Rocky Mountains.
Another conversation
headed out
under the towering rocks
the big sky
while knowing
I perhaps hadn’t gone far enough
just in case.
Expressions
change with geography
radioed opinions
social, news media
surveillance
omnipresent
even when turned
to “off.”
Hours and days passed,
a few thousand miles later
on the multi-lane pavement,
with the knowledge
the “open road” is a state of mind.
* * *
Tenants of the Almighty
by Lisa Marie Popp
She was always trying new things,
and she’d try them ten times harder
than anyone else
If the label said one teaspoon
she’d down two tablespoons,
She was young and spirited and
Beauty aged, in her work, into
the gnarled hands of the old woman:
These are the hands of labor,
Forty acres and steel mules,
the dream sold to
Tenants of the Almighty,
as a Preface to Peasantry
on the stricken land in the Family of Man.
I’m not interested in adjectives
I’m only interested in pictures
Not a photographer
but a sociologist with a camera records
your streets,
your buildings,
your factories,
But our souls, God damn you
it’s the farms and the towns
not the highways between,
A man may have holes in his shoes
and you may see the holes
as an occasional psychoanalyst without portfolio,
But there’s a lot more to that man
than the holes in his shoes
Howling dogma disentwines the bureaucratic web
and stumbles across the skull and horns
of Freedom,
bleaching in the sun.
In the midst of this antheming country
Dignity battles despair
When dignity loses, the people will
become extinct.
She has the expression of tragedy permanently on her face,
Yet something transcends misery,
the set of the chin the straight line of the shoulders
Not the face of despair.
What do you see
out of the kitchen window?
Pictures of men, women, and Children in magazines
appearing as if they might really believe
in America, apple pie, polished shoes, pressed clothes, and so on….
Looking farther down the street,
People on and off the Job
the country club becomes the street corner
or open-doored bars and eat joints,
What will happen to the roadside hamburger stand?
The highway is a more attractive place
than the places people live.
Past the weather beaten houses
and quiet stores comes the Edge of Death
where the city and highway meet
A record of human erosion
A permanent wistfulness
for space and peace
and silly sentimental pictures
of sharp women in hats.
The ability to take life
however it came
was lost in America,
bone tired, dead broke,
old before her time
She has all the suffering of mankind
in her,
but all the perseverance too,
a restraint and a strange courage
You can see anything you want
in her,
She is immortal
as the dry steel water pump
in front of a peeling church.
* * *
Will the self remember?
by L J Frank
An oversized evening canvas
braced against an easel standing
on a creaking wood deck under the mountain air
an overhead light
the oil paint slowly drips colors
as I point the tip of a long handle brush
only to be interrupted…
a sound of a drone
twilight has it own un-private zones
in the blue back darkness of clear night sky,
wondering if the universe is really a multiverse
how many dimensions
does space and time fold
and what is the threshold
will the self remember?
* * *
Through a textured matrix
by L J Frank
Thick vibrant colors
spilled on a canvas
a Mockingbird sings in a tree,
extraneous sounds filtered
randomly
through a textured matrix.
* * *
After Yeats
by Lisa Marie Popp
My love who tries not to love me:
My life which cannot love me:
I seduce both.
He with my light-switch love…
If I were always here, would my love be the same?
Life is my art…
(Shield before death)
Thus without sadness I live
(What unhappy rooms I leave!)
One knows nothing…
One desires…
Which is the life.
* **
Sound
by Lisa Marie Popp
The real surrounds me
With its barbed wire entanglements
Leaping upwards, I clutch at a cloud
and stuff it in my head.
In a blue haze
figures emerge
and drift
in an endless floating dance.
Women with streaming hair
fall downwards
Holding burning flowers.
Flocks of eyes fly around gazing
and flapping their lids.
Stretching out
on the cloud in my mind
I wait for the approach
of the ultimate dream.
* * *
So Far Away
by Lisa Marie Popp
Clouds, big ones, oh it’s
blowing up wild outside.
Be something for me
this time. Change me,
wind. Change me, Rain.
* * *
Sky
by Lisa Marie Popp
You, gull, up there
Steer down towards me
Freedom, to me,
Your wings are white
Up there in the coolness.
* * *
Listen to the wind
by L J Frank
The word meditate is an ancient word
I crossed the desert where it murmurs and chants
and found myself listening
to the faint echo of unfamiliar sounds;
being one with the sand, the wind and the sky,
to meditate implies the profound
its roots seeded in the mind-scape of Asia and the Middle East.
Just take a deep breath…inhale, exhale, focus, relax, breathe
repeat a mantra if need be
let the collage come in and go out…
if you seek truth
then perhaps you should consider
dropping your opinions,
the monk spoke.
The days of the soul can be found standing in line
waiting for it’s number to appear on the counter of some machine
but the machine is the time paradox
as you realize you’re the clock
and the reflection is you in another dimension;
meditation comes in a plethora of shapes
tweaked sizes to fit the “individual”
and for an extra dollar we will go even deeper,
it may not be enough pay the your soul’s bills
but transcending the moment helps
I suppose it all depends on what you seek
some are in and some are left out
chance…
listen to the wind.
* * *
The day after
by Lisa Marie Popp
I sit the day after humanity
without form
watching the world turn
watch nothing
Like three soft stars
so many miles away
after three months exile
sent a long letter home
Did someone steal
Mona Lisa’s smile forever
to write a poem on
Lennon’s death in Rolling Stone
In the kitchen singing
about apple trees right now
surprised to see manila folder
filled with serious intentions
How clear your voice
from a bundle of paper
laughing merrily
merrily without form
We are the form
who can see through walls
see through the concrete
it is great out there
Continuing on forever
through fields of crewcut wheat
through the white lightning moon
the glamorous licorice eyes glow
You must dive down
to retrieve forever with the coral bones
where the strange creatures roll
William Blake spoke to me
Saying you must finish
and damn Dylan won’t stay sober
full of paranoia coffee
high on surrealistic newspapers
I missed the bus
waving goodbye
cut my wings
set me free
Like a gypsy sunflower
pretty girls you’ve never seen
angels rapturous & clean
like you’ve never seen
Like you’ve never seen
count the angels
on the rim
Yes, yes, and even yes.
* * *
The Macintosh Mantra
by L J Frank
It was afternoon as I walked through the hilly orchard of apple trees with their ripe autumn fruit – like wandering through a colorful painting by some famous artist whose name I misplaced in the folds of a memory that needed dusting off.
Apple orchard wandering was one of my favorite times while working on a farm during my youth – to walk through the orchard and breathe in the quiet fragrance of life. Like vineyards and grapes it has the appeal for the artist that favors diverse tastes.
One doesn’t become an artist overnight. If nature bestows such talent and one finds one possesses a natural gift then take it with a grain of salt like most things in life. This too shall pass. Perceptions are just that. And to possess even one’s heart is an illusion. The textured soles of the human soul may not find its imprint on the canvas of what is perceived.
As minutes turned into an hour the late afternoon was garnished with a reddish-blue sky so I took a moment to gaze at the orchard of apples when I spotted a tree with the luscious Macintosh fruit hanging from the branches.
Macintosh apples have thick skins colored in reds and greens with a sensual tart flavored flesh that is white, pink and green at times. So I picked but one apple and washed it off at a water pump near a barn and then sat down on the ground and just took the earthy surroundings all in while savoring the taste of this autumn fruit. For me on that day, the two words ‘Macintosh apple’ was my mantra and brought a smile to my face.
* * *
Thoughts Sitting Breathing
by Lisa Marie Popp
In my shadow
shading pencils & hypodermic words
in my shadow
I saw you & abandoned nothing
like notebooks all empty, all for show
all for saccharin sighs:
I sang a blues, made rock stars weep
then breathed my own breath
through a tear-gas hallucination
and sat silent
at the bar
writing words
with an ink soul.
** *
A reflection on Amedeo Clemente Modigliani
by L J Frank
Yesterday happened in less than
a blink in one eye
all history is contemporary
in the context of the abstract expressionist
a studio of contrasting hues
the shower from the sun casts its light
to gaze upon and consider
she needed no pose
colors deposited in the grooves
of the wood palette
the oil dripped from a long handle brush
each stroke conveyed
a sense of humanity
flirted with the uncommon
still, life is cut short
on a Bohemian note
brilliance arrives the day of his passing
money exchanged before
the body begins its final journey.
* * *
Unscripted IV…the past recedes in the rear view mirror
by L J Frank
Endless road. Scenery changes. Browns, greens, yellows, reds textured with cornfields, lakes and woods.
Driving past the coldness of cement structures, the one sided view of opaque glass monuments, bridges overhead, the two-lane black asphalt continues as far as one can see through aviator sunglasses.
Accelerate then slow down, semi-trucks, a monotonous parade of sports utility vehicles with rusted memories on four wheels. The finger presses a button. The channel is changed but the news is the same.
The banal and tedious voices of talk show hosts and their guests are switched to symphony and jazz. The music blurs. The mind empties.
Beef cattle stand alongside the road waiting endless hours grazing and looking at the passing faces, as they somehow know death will come soon enough.
In the distance a storm gathers. The dark grows, a gray cloud swirls as the wind increases in speed, and billows of gray touch the ground then just as quickly dissipates as if it never existed.
The road is wet and glistens from shadows of the sun that shower the pavement. A car pulls over in front so a passenger can take a picture of a rainbow.
The road continues and the driver listens to his thoughts played against the music in the background. The past recedes in the rearview mirror.
* * *
The Art of Love
by Lisa Marie Popp
My god, how you beautifully you write!
I sleep with you tonight?
You like my voice, I like your rhyme,
We’ll chase the words for a time.
Our poems we forbear
To write of Kleenex or long hair,
Or how the one may fuck the other,
We’re serious artists, aren’t we brother?
In our poems, oceans heave
Like our stomachs when we leave
Late at night the 14th bar,
I, your meteor, you, my star.
When autumn ends, like a page
We’ll still be floating thru our craze,
wildly singing in the haze,
I, past saving, you, past praise.
* * *
Unscripted III
by L J Frank
DETOUR. It was a yellow road sign with black letters and an arrow underneath. I double-checked the GPS on my smart phone. Getting sidetracked has the allure of adaptability, adversity, humor and perseverance, not necessarily in that order.
Adversity has the capacity to shape character. Years ago I was aboard a schooner on a voyage with a particular destination mapped on a navigational chart. We endured a short time of intense concern when the engine failed. We had a small fire aboard and drifted without a wind for a couple of days. We finally caught a breeze and sailed into a port where the captain had experienced previous licensing issues of which he pleaded innocence. Once docked the captain considered his situation, glanced over at a distant camera on a tall pole and looked over at me and smiled, “Minor diversion. I have an idea.”
Detours in life can be minor diversions. I looked at the 24 hour digital clock on the dashboard. It was getting late so I decided to stop at a large motel near a crossroads to catch up on some sleep. I discovered there was a television in the living room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom in a comparatively small suite.
I’m drawn and repelled by the ubiquitous monitors, cameras and computer screens. It allows a surreal idea to transcend the reality of a mere overnight stay or simply driving down the highway.
During that “motel evening” I had a dream that I was getting sucked into one of the screens as if I was in a horror film. Then I wondered whether I was looking at the screen or it was looking at and even perhaps assessing me.
The next morning I checked my email and received a survey on my smart phone. I had reached my ‘survey monkey’ limit long ago and expected a call from a surveying agency asking me why I didn’t rate them higher. It was about money. My inner survey avoidance system kicked in.
I shook my head, departed and placed my baggage in the trunk of my small car, slid down behind the wheel and headed for the highway. As I was driving up over a hill with windows rolled down I heard a buzzing sound above me. The buzz passed over me and as I looked up I noticed it was a drone. It was close enough that I could see some type of corporate logo.
I kept driving until I saw the drone land by the roadside near a sports utility vehicle a hundred yards in front of me. As I drove by the vehicle I could hear the man standing next to the drone yell back to the driver, “ I have a thought!”
The entire detour turned out to be just that – a detour. About thirty miles later I was back on the mapped highway when I received another message via my smart phone indicating I should expect a detour. I smiled to myself, turned on the radio to listen to a news interview. The interviewer asked his guest, “Has the nation and the world evolved into a television program?”
* * *
What is Left?
by Lisa Marie Popp
Me that was
the owl
on the fence
fell into a mold
made of clay
for the doves.
Me that was
the desert
parched eyes & thirsty
finally saw
you’re really sipping
when your glass
is always empty.
Me that was
the dawn
when the air was pure
became a dawn
that dawns on another rumor of war,
all things come and go.
Me that was
just coming & going
all over the place,
the place itself is coming & going,
Which is feeling just coming to go,
Who’s going to ever know the world
Before it goes?
* * *
Pens may now be used in The Library
by Lisa Marie Popp
Your smile was
a magical swirl
of rebel art
in the dust of old
eight-by-tens
I used to love
you, but it’s all over now.
I lick your lips
with great expectations,
but you’re pretty vanilla.
The ponytail rap sessions
proved life intimidates art
All you have
is a wall of noise, the souvenir
of insurgent poise
You were a dusky rebel
among educator’s enlightenment
You can’t listen to the music,
You make a sound statement.
Don’t defrost me, oh my darling ice
King of stark subversive satire,
My Bombay Sapphire
pours something priceless
into the remaining tides,
Put on your protest headdress
The mattress has a headache
My street sign says, “NO OUTLET”
So ciao baby! My hair’s in a ponytail now,
Why must something be cut simply
because it grows?
A curious personal tragedy,
I found the Buddha
in a closed dandelion sack
among copper ground, purple leaves,
black waves falling back,
No countersign of codfish aristocrat
The rings on your wood reveal your longevity,
I got to the bottom
of the top man.
The seagulls scream, the telling dream
of how the lost love
was lost.
Rage as shiny and fun
as a child’s toy
has a high cost,
The color of the water changed
and I had cold hands
Was it last Christmas
you began to resemble Dylan Thomas
and Bob Dylan?
* * *
Unscripted II
by L J Frank
After a couple of days discussing a ghostwriting project with a client on the west coast, I headed across the Southwest on Route 1-40. I had another project approximately 500 hundred miles away and then on to my ultimate destination on the east coast. I like to drive and the trip gave me time to talk into my recorder.
Miles went by under the heat of the sun and the wide-open parched landscape. Later that night I decided to stop at the welcome sign of a neon cowboy. I pulled in the mostly deserted motel parking lot that was situated next to a bar that had seen better days.
I was on a budget and ideas can always look good at first glance, especially driving at night with little else seeming to be in sight. There was a red Honda Shadow Aero motorcycle parked in front of the office. I walked through the open flaking painted wood door of the office and a woman with long dark brown hair and wearing a black tank top was leaning over the counter closely examining some papers.
“Hello?”
“Oh! Howdy.” She stood up and smiled at me rather surprised as if I had caught her off guard.
“How much for the night?”
She hesitated, shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well since we have very few customers tonight, how’s ah…twenty-five bucks? That includes taxes!”
“Sounds great.” I replied, squinting my eyes with only a moment given to a second thought.
She looked around and then tossed me an actual key and not a card, “we’re cutting back.” She said.
“Ah.”
“Have a good night’s rest.” She grinned.
“Thanks.” I took the key and handed her a twenty and a five-dollar bill and started to walk out the door. I glanced back to see her walking over to a chair. She picked up a leather jacket that was lying across it and returned to the counter. I hadn’t noticed before but she had an intriguing tattoo on her upper left arm with a design I couldn’t decipher.
As I walked to the room, I noticed a few pickup trucks parked more towards the restaurant side of the lot and another across from the motorcycle. I unlocked the door to the room and sat on the bed to test it when I heard a “caw” sound in the bathroom. I quickly got up and went to investigate. There was an odor I couldn’t readily describe. I looked around and opened the shower curtain and jumped back when a large black crow flew out an opening that was previously a window. A breeze pebbled with sand blew in from the opening. It was not a good omen.
I didn’t feel like camping out and went back into the other room. This time something caught my attention crawling on the ceiling – a large metallic looking insect. I doubted that it was listed in The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Insects and Spiders.
I grabbed my suitcase and after tossing it in the trunk of my car decided to have a word with the motel manager. I noticed the motorcycle and nearby pickup truck had vanished and my car was the only one remaining except for those vehicles near the restaurant.
I walked into the office to find it empty. A stranger walking by outside from the nearby restaurant apparently saw me earlier. As I exited the office he took his brown Stetson hat off, scratched his head, and looked at me curiously and said, “I thought they closed this place a couple of weeks ago.”
“What?”
“Well, they closed it after a film crew used it to film one of those science fiction or horror flicks. I forget which. Course, it may have been a commercial as they do that a lot around these parts. They all look the same to me.” He just shook his head, made a sound with his lips that could have been a whistle and continued walking away.
“Seriously?”
He turned and looked back at me with a grin. “Yep. Good luck.” Then resumed his pace walking towards a distant truck.
Thanks.” I walked over to my car, slid down into the seat and decided to drive further down the road with a stop over for some coffee at a less deserted place. I pulled onto the right side of the two-lanes and headed across the high desert terrain. I seemed to be the only one on the road except for a couple of semi-trucks barreling down the highway in the opposite direction.
I was moving at a pretty good speed and decided after thirty miles or so to pull into a large gas station and restaurant oasis that was ahead on the right. As I was filling up the gas tank, a red Honda Shadow drove up to the pump behind me. After removing her helmet I recognized the woman with the long dark brown hair. Before I could say anything, she said, “thanks for the money, it was a quick fix and it worked out for me.”
“Maybe I missed something,” I said.
“It’s a long story, but here’s twenty back.” She smiled and walked over to me and handed me the bill. She pumped her gas and paid inside the station and then hurried back. “Hope you don’t mind I just used the five to top off my gas tank. If you get back this way…well you know. As my grandfather used to say, better to owe a man, than beat him out of it.” She then winked and then stopped in mid-track. “Wait. When you’re finished please join me in the restaurant. I know the manager. We can get some free coffee and apple pie.“
“Well, why not?” I nodded.
After finishing filling my tank I pulled my car next to her motorcycle near the front door and joined her in the restaurant. I sat across from her at a small square simulated wood table and listened to her tell a remarkable story about ex-husbands, a horse and her motorcycle. I spent the time just listening with a question here and there for clarity. An hour later, she simply said with a soft smile, “Thanks for listening, partner.”
I reflected for a second on the word partner. “I’m always up for a good story.” I returned the smile.
We got up, she turned to me, gave me a hug, put on her leather jacket and then we walked outside. She jumped on her motorcycle, placed the helmet on her head, then waved and headed north at a nearby crossroads.
I got in my car and drove east wondering about the word, unscripted.
* * *
Lemonade Rain
by Lisa Marie Popp
The sky was psychoanalyzing
as Delicatessen Jill rushed out
into the rain with a jello mold,
ink from her eyes fell
under a dark mango tree
sweet as the milky heart of a coconut
beneath the setting sun,
urban sunset like a dried-up lemon.
I am only a bit of cucumber
my skin lies in the dust
my heart is thirsty
my mind is withering while
like a swan from the sky
falls lemonade rain I
and the chicken argue about
which came first,
the rain or the ocean.
Industrial trucks move
leather couches outside
where impatient vegetarians
lounge green gelatin
and beach chairs as waiters
with parched eyes serve
the ornaments on silver platters
and letters torn
from monogrammed terry robes.
Ducks flying clockwise
over the blood-stained picnic table
where the local color
was never ultra-blue
where buttery-soft leather boots
safely locked tourists away
into cowboy consciousness,
and bubble watches and spectacles
pulse on rented night tables bedside
the clown pillow on a fig-shaped bed.
Stretch, don’t splinter,
and melted into my arm and
the snowman said,
“Salt substitute please.”
* * *
Unscripted
by L J Frank
It was unscripted. I drove down the road past multi-colored billboards, yellowish cement block buildings, fast food restaurants and shells of deserted homes, fenced luxury communities, retail centers and an insurance industry that was well represented with their glass structures followed by wide-open stretches of drought ridden land.
Miles later the monotone wilderness of cracked clay and loam soil appeared to suffocate under the waves of heat. In the middle of a stretched piece of terrain I felt like I had been transported back to the 1930’s and saw a lanky figure of a man standing by the roadside looking like a reincarnation of Woody Guthrie holding on to the neck of a weathered guitar leaning against his left leg; we both nodded to each other about the same time.
Perhaps an hour or so away from the nearest big city that was smaller than the population would suggest I saw a faded art deco style restaurant that looked like it had been converted from an oversized Airstream trailer. I pulled into the dusty rectangular parking lot that was enhanced with a few bushes resistant to drought.
I walked inside and sat down on bar stool and calculated how long it would take me to get to my destination while overhearing layers of conversations from people sitting on metal framed stools and at chrome edged tables. The scene felt oddly surreal.
I felt a hand on my shoulder while sipping some thick tasting black coffee, looked up and a kindly old native squinted and said, “I saw you pull in.”
I nodded.
“Well, I hear your car will come in handy.” His thin lips parted with a grin across his leathered face.
“What?” I asked his backside as he had quickly walked away and wondered what he meant. I surveyed the room and several faces looked toward me at which juncture I nodded with a facial expression I suppose that was somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
Upon finishing my coffee I walked back to my car when I felt another hand on my shoulder. “Where are you going so quickly?” A gangly brunette with a knowing smile asked.
“I’m headed that way.” I said pointing with my forefinger.
“You’re not him?”
“Him?”
“Yeah we’re filming a commercial here in a few hours.”
“Ah.”
“We called in for him with his car.” She said pointing to my car.
“Oh,” Rubbing my forehead, “Sorry…what kind of commercial?”
“It’s an insurance commercial. The guy in that car gets shot.”
“Gets shot?” My eyebrows rose.
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“How much what? What do you talking about?”
“How much do you pay to get shot?” I asked.
“You’re funny.” She laughed and walked away. “Not him!” She yelled to a man standing next to an RV that wasn’t there when I first arrived.
* * *
Within the mist of relationships
by LJ FrankIt happened somewhere on the coast within the mist of relationships, during one of those once or twice in a lifetime fleeting moments when suddenly something changes. It has the feel of the existential.
I was walking on the ocean’s shoreline as waves crashed over boulders that jutted out of the sand. The beach was far enough from a quaint village to feel that I was alone in a primeval refugeI heard a sound behind me only to look back to see a gull following me in search of food and observed that the impressions left by my feet were quickly erased by the crashing surf. The air smelled of algae, fish and the salty immense waves of the ocean.Though seldom having been truly at a loss, I have been bewildered any number of times. These brief moments mostly seemed artificially stimulated by the confusions of words and events that purposefully lead to a busy place called ‘empty.’ There are moments that ‘bewildered’ is a natural occurrence.I looked down the beach and toward what appeared to be a substantial piece of driftwood that was swept ashore. Seagulls glided nearby over the ocean’s surface crying; and in the distance, among the swells of the watery turquoise deep a singular puff of spray shot up in the air.As I drew closer to the mammoth piece of driftwood, it started moving. It opened an eye that looked at me approaching and appeared to follow my every movement. I said hello. She lay on the sand and I sat down beside the huge mammal within her view. I spoke with her while I called on my cellular phone for help. I spoke to her about our journeys as if she might understand. An hour or so passed and I realized she had become motionless. I stood up, no one had come, so I said goodbye and walked toward the village.No explanation but an experience allowing for the brevity of awareness.
* * *
Looking at the wallpaper & thinking of nothing
by Lisa Marie Popp
The soul of sweet delight
trickles down the gasping drain
back to the pure East where
my child of night and sleep
speaks silence as
the Sun walks in glorious robes
on the secret floor where
you hold a candle in the Sunshine.
Yet all I taste are
hungry clouds that sag
in the burdened air,
Until I drink you
Like sponge drinks water.
* * *
Tread marks on the dirt road of the mind
by L J Frank
Clarity of mind can appear in the form of a simple equation and then disappear within the nuances of fresh knowledge.
The sun was about two hours above the western horizon. I climbed up to a place on a mountainside and sat in a modified lotus position on a mat of pine needles under a large white pine tree in a forest overlooking the ocean – rhythmically breathing. Self-realization was not what I was pursuing.
A man with skin loosely clinging to his bones, long white hair pulled back into a ponytail, a large nose and creases in his tanned forehead, approached leaning into the wind with a walking stick in hand. He looked over and greeted me as he held on to the hickory stick and decided to share his thoughts about his life as an out of work sailor. “The economic structures we sail on today are technological marvels but the passengers are walking a plank they don’t think exists,” he observed with the wisp of a memory.
As he looked over the blue-green rolling waves that crashed ashore I asked him what he attributed to his surviving for so long and he grinned, “To begin and end each day breathing.”
“Humor affects the well-being of the heart.” I smiled. He nodded and went on his way.
After the brief meditative excursion, I hiked down to the dirt road filled with tread marks and climbed into my small car, turned on my smart phone and glanced at the acronymic text messages, then scanned a digital journal and a few newspapers from around the electronic planet.
Clarity may not always arrive in an easy to understand equation. It may occur by accident or through a carefully engineered vision of the tread marks on the dirt road of the mind.
* * *
The writer and his thoughts
by L J Frank
Writing consumes. It ebbs and flows, cascades and splashes over the protruding rocks and boulders of diversion. An uneven obsession mingles in the waters of the mind that can create an undertow carrying ones thoughts back out to an ocean of indecision. Or a single thought may get lodged into an alcove covered with the spiny reef of complexity inside the writer’s brain. The future is unknown.
Some writers just write each day without ultimately wanting to say a thing or think they are saying something new and knowing inside they are not. If they are among the fortunate they receive money to pay for their lifestyle even if it’s living temporarily in a small house with sand for a patio and a wi-fi connection on an arrogantly shabby beach in South Carolina.
Writers like many other professionals rationalize. Others have a savvy agent or publish themselves and/or have a great marketing strategy or network. And others pursue a narrative of their own.
Perhaps the writer seeking to be enlightened journeys to a distant monastery atop a mountain of which access is via a wooden bridge spanning two mountain tops, hanging perilously a half-mile above the rugged valley floor below. I walked that path and across that bridge. I realized I could indulge in other processes to gain enlightenment. So I traveled across an ocean on a sailing ship with the spray of the high seas striking my face and breathed in the freshness of the blue-green waters along with miles of smelly garbage floating on the surface.
And, so I walk on the beach and listen to the crashing waves and arrive back at the dwelling and take pleasure in a small meal as needed during the day or in the middle of the night, and over a glass of wine and other etceteras.
I continue to write until I can’t for what really else is there? There are no texts in existence that were not written or proclaimed sacred or deemed an ultimate authority except by the women or men who are inspired to write about their inspiration – until their thoughts are perceived to be exhausted, and then they write some more.
So this writer writes…even as the glow from the sun in the western sky appears to descend and turns the eastern horizon into bluish red and a distant boat bobs up and down on the waves of the deep.
* * *
The affected believer
by L J Frank
The young man had just finished a reading of Eric Hoffer’s True Believer (1951). In the book, Hoffer suggests a person that is frustrated and feeling powerless with his or her life, finds redemption and extravagant hope in a ‘holy cause which is to a considerable extent a lost faith in ourselves…The less justified a man is in claiming excellence for his own self, the more ready he is to claim excellence for his nation, his religion, his race or his holy cause.’
Under the seemingly infinite cloak of frustration the extreme may find its niche in ritual like behavior. A ritual, though manipulative can be a form of escape or transformation or even absolution. It can feel good, for it’s easy to misplace things that are set down in a different place each day, especially if happens to be one’s mindfulness.
Still, one evening after a bout of severe frustration, the young man walked through the medieval garden and knelt on an alter inside the holy place waiting for a special ritual. A thick blond-haired wise old man, dressed in black from shoes to suit, a cleric’s shirt with a mandarin collar, approached the young man. He had a wiry, angular build with deep-set blue eyes, a long face accentuated with a lantern jaw and bushy arched brows. He could have been a reincarnation of Dr. Johann Faust himself. He leaned over and his lips almost touched the young man’s ears. And, with his right hand he grabbed the young man’s shirt collar – his raspy baritone voice whispered something to cause the young man to gulp and cry out, “What?”
The unsettled crowd of spectators that had decidedly leaned forward from their seats to hear what was spoken was now silent. What did he say to the young man?
The wise old man quickly eyed the now cowering crowd to see if he had their attention and then just as quickly looked down at the young man with his piercing gaze. The young man sensed the fire in the wise old man’s temper uncertain of his own fate. He started to rise up from his kneeling position, when he was suddenly struck on the forehead with the palm of the man’s hand sufficiently enough to toss him backwards causing him to land on his back.
The spellbound crowd gasped. The young man quickly scrambled outside. Once he found himself in the gardens he halted, his hands shook and a drop of sweat dripped from his forehead. He started to nervously chuckle when a stray dog mistook his leg for a tree trunk.
A member of the crowd of spectators followed the young man outside. And in an appropriately somber voice approached and asked, “What did the wise old man say to you?”
The young man looked over towards the stranger with a crooked grin. He said, “I can’t heal!”
* * *
The language of spaghetti in a “barista” economy
by L J Frank
I was invited to the small Italian café after hours. The chef smiled and spoke with a Mediterranean accent, “Ripe, juicy, organic tomatoes are best as a main ingredient when creating sauce from scratch. Add your herbs and other ingredients, keep it simple, and mix with a long handle large spoon. And anyone can align cooked noodles in a medium-sized bowl just like a professional, then spread the sauce and add some grated cheese,” she laughed.
I smiled. The language employed is very important while cooking as any event with spectator or service appeal aptly demonstrates, especially in a “barista” economy. Such an economy implies more money spent on services than the stuff one buys. A barista is a fancy word but it’s not a career from which to survive.
The word survive has an existential quality. A word can either calm or agitate or stimulate the neurons in our brain. Language in the words of linguist Dwight Bolinger is “like a loaded gun.” A word(s) whether by intent or by accident can hurt, maim, wound or otherwise undermine our existence and only the perception of time may heal the travesty of a word(s) spoken ages ago – seeded and cultivated from the soil of ignorance and arrogance.
“Never get angry at your food. It carries over to the meal. Acrimony and food do not mix well,” the chef stated, and then whispered, “On the other hand, personally, I don’t care for preparing food that once had a central nervous system and brain. Having a central nervous system and a brain regardless of size means the creature could perceive that they were the ones being served. Animals have instincts with an internal language of their own. If I were that creature would I wonder – now that blood has been shed, are you enjoying eating this body? That’s an unsavory and rude thought. Ritual and sacrifice appear to have an unseemly history.”
I nodded in recognition.
The chef added, “Also, one must be careful not to over cook the noodles. A spaghetti dinner may be enhanced by candles, flowers and a glass of red wine to help the language of digestion.”
We both paused and wondered aloud whether passing along one’s recipes for food or wealth is simply an intergenerational transfer, and who knows where this kind of thinking could lead to among heirs to fortunes?
While the chef finished preparations, I noticed my smart phone light flashing. I opened my email to notice an advertisement for insurance…the delete button was quickly pressed and I sat down with the chef at the table to enjoy the simplicity of a sophisticated meal and a light-hearted and fascinating conversation.
* * *
An inquiry into a subway experience
by L J Frank
The man hurried down the steps to the subway with his newly acquired briefcase in hand filled with a curious manuscript, and descended into the subterranean environs of wired stone walls, cables, metal pipes, tracks, trains, screeching noises, cameras, computers and the traffic of bodies and voices interspersed with the sound of a saxophone.
He noticed some words nearby written with a red marker on the wall below a directional sign:
“The end of recorded knowledge comes! Be wary!”
Regards, Jon Edwards.
It felt evangelical. But the evangelical American theologian and philosopher of the same name, Jonathan Edwards died in 1758. The scientific evidence for any actual divine admonition is paltry. Still, he wondered if knowledge and belief were mere commodities, just not listed on any stock market exchange.
The man looked around at the people waiting on the platform. The theology of “real politic” can be a metaphysical experience with a heavy dose of pragmatism, and realism spiced with surrealism and garnished with a colorful existential dressing. The universe has been queer for ages. And the machine and money are seductive as is a job that pays the bills.
Personally, the man found subway literature at times to be intellectually stimulating and amusingly insightful and yet other moments, rather dull. He periodically traveled a particular train route just to try to catch up with the illusive after hour literary genius, while sipping a cup of espresso sold as special drink for a special person. He watched people carry on conversations with themselves and occasionally stop to read some of Jon’s wall literature with their smart phone in hand texting abbreviations and acronyms.
He hopped on to the train after the arriving travelers bounded off. The train jerked ahead. Passengers grabbed hold of metal poles for balance. Minutes passed. He reached his objective. He exited the city’s umbilical chord-like tunnels climbing a gray cement staircase and then noticed another quote scribbled on the gray cement wall next to the steps leading up to the street above:
“The ground rules have changed. Experience determines your reaction – not will.”
Regards, Jon Edwards
Who is this Jon Edwards? The man shook his head and walked out from the bowels of the city. A heavy drizzle greeted him. A thick misty, foggy, chilly wetness began to filter through his clothes and dampen his skin. “Perfect,” he thought to myself. There was a sense of uncertainty and carefully crafted insecurity affecting those walking purposefully towards their planned destination. A startled pigeon flew overhead and relieved himself. Chance.
The man approached a corner and caught a glimpse of an advertisement on the side of a passing truck:
“The one remaining truth we can be sure of is to be found in a homemade chocolate chip cookie fresh from our oven.”
* * *
Are you sure?
by L J Frank
He glanced up towards the window of the store on Spring Street in Lower Manhattan. A woman in a tan raincoat was reaching over to retrieve a black leather briefcase from a table in a window display. She looked up and returned the man’s glance with a quick smile.
Then with the brief in one hand and a plastic bag in the other she walked back to a counter. Their silent exchange took place in a matter of a few seconds.
He walked on towards his meeting. The feeling of seeing a familiar face happens often. The more one travels, the more the familiar seems to occur. He recalled a sign he once read, “The familiar projects the familiar,” on a subway wall.
He supposed that a person could project attributes as well as limitations on another person based on their own limited experiences and knowledge. It happens.
The man looked at his watch and in that same moment wondered why he needed a watch when he had a smart phone that also showed the time. A couple of hands on the clock instill a philosophical approach to work. Work and joy for him were one and the same. He found pleasure in having clothes, food, shelter, a sensual relationship with another human, money for transportation and a job. It was more about living just above survival. It was a delicate interweave.
On examination the idea of living to work or working to live was intellectually trite within a fractured economy for the numberless living day-to-day or week-to-week. It missed the point but the concept was marketed from the minds of the financially well off. Hard work doesn’t alone lead to financial success or wealth.
So, he hurried his pace to make sure he was there a few minutes early. He was supposed to meet his client in the lobby. He had only seen a fuzzy photo of her in their emails. She had connected with him through a friend of a friend. They apparently had met at a wine tasting years before.
His client seemed transparent, clear and systematic in her approach and had questioned him about the work they were undertaking together. She was not a professional writer but was skilled and personable in their emails. For her the past was complicated. She was taking a risk. He didn’t ask her why. It didn’t matter. He was more interested in how and when and then how much.
He arrived early and walked around the lobby. Just as he was taking a deep breath his client appeared. She was wearing a tan raincoat and carrying over her shoulder a black leather briefcase.
Coincidence and familiarity sometimes go hand in hand. As she drew closer, he noticed her eyes were older than those on the face in the emailed photo and with a more profound searching look. “I brought the brief for you. The stuff is inside,” she said.
He smiled and nodded. He also remembered her. They stood near a window away from the people coming and going and talked for several minutes. They said goodbye, started to depart and then both stopped and looked back towards each other. They asked the same thing at the same time, “Are you sure?” Their eyes met. No words were exchanged. Nothing more was to be asked or said. They walked away in separate directions.
* * *
Tripping over a word
by L J Frank
He inadvertently tripped over the word and stumbled forward but then caught himself in mid-stride without further embarrassment.
Besides a word, he said to himself, is just a start, a beginning, an inauguration, a birth or an inception and shouldn’t be taken out of context. Location is not just a matter of real estate.
A single word can cause one to aimlessly flounder or fall in a direction that was not originally intended and mean something only to one of three primary possibilities – the speaker, listener or reader, or if fortunate, or unfortunate, depending on the word, all three.
A word can be a translation of a thought or non-thought or even an “un-thought” as any number of people within eye or earshot of a word written or spoken may find different meanings, whereas, the speaker/writer’s word also might find itself alone and viewed as a sound fracturing glass with little appreciation – context be damned.
A word here and there, happens. In the beginning was the “word” might symbolize something of an anointed origin or simply point to human behavior attempting to capture a thought through a word. And so a single word can lead a person down a path to an entrance of the mind’s sanctuary whose door might be open or on the other hand, the door may have sufficiently rusted hinges that hinder access.
Alas, in this peculiar case and with all that has been observed, the man simply tripped over an indecipherable word written in purple chalk on the sidewalk in front of a nondescript corporate looking building with only a number above the bronze frame of a door.
* * *
Quiet Stirrings
by L J Frank
Ferns spread at the base of a hickory on the lower slope of a mountain
Woods cloaked with a chilling wetness that drips slowly from limbs
A cascading stream icily spills over boulders
Dining on a bleeding furry creature a hawk looks up
To survey the surroundings
Swallowing a frog kicking its hind legs a snake’s mouth opens wide…
Amid subdued moist islands of velvety moss
Between the hardwoods
A veil shields the roots and cavity of a red oak in hibernation
Where a spider torments a moth caught in its web…
In coming tides of a smoky haze
Sun shadows filtered through mostly leafless maples and oaks
Hemlocks decaying
A distant sounding mocking bird sings an illusive chant
That echoes as if from a distant valley
While Insects encircle a once flowering plant yet to be
A great barred owl perched high on a swaying white pine
Looks down pitilessly on a wayward, frail deer…
A man on a ridge watches
He breathes in the cold air deeply and coughs
Leaning against his walking stick
Survival is not romantic
Still, the forest’s allure is a promise of a luxuriant spring’s canopy
Existence.
* * *
Mirrors and Reflections
by L J Frank
Perhaps it was too early for insight
I got up and walked to the next room
Caught a reflection of my body in a mirror
And found that my skin
Was loose and wrinkled
Apparently, I hadn’t been paying much attention
It’s been a while…
So shaving cream was applied
Less stubble and more moisture offered little difference
The body requires tone to breathe with life
And not be placed in some way station waiting for an eternity of the unknown…
Heartbeats are measured as a dear young friend said, before her passing
In the process of seeking – I found a deeper connection
There’s interweave between the spiritual, sensual, intellectual & erotic
It all seems to become clearer with each passing moment
Still I meditate as if I am in a monastery
Then I found that my mind really is,
Or, perhaps…
My brain teases me with the unreachable
At least for the moment
The mirror as a fleeting image of the mind,
Is it not just an artificial invention?
To see a filtered self in a singular dimension
Who made the mirror an authority on one’s reflection?
Maybe it’s best to look in the mirror at twilight
With the light from behind, a friend suggested,
Then there’s no need for a “facelift”…
Unless one finds a light within,
Lingering.
* * *
NP Journal. An evolving architecture of the human voice. Copyright © 2011-2019 LJ Frank. All Rights Reserved. Content may only be used with author’s permission.