Old Dogs (Transcribed from Handwritten Notes, of Course)

I miss inkwells
   even though I've never used one

Some writers
   many maybe
   don't write
   anymore

They type
   They're TYPERS

Well I'm a fucking WRITER

Pen and ink
   smudged paper
   crinkly noises
   bent corners
   indentation on my middle finger
   writer

And old dogs like me
   are dying out

Emerson left a million pages
   of journals

Twain's hand-drawn scribbles
   cover his manuscripts

Evidence of process

But where
   I ask you
   in this digital age

Is the evidence
   that a writer's mind
   (or fingers)
   were ever at work?

(It's all deleted)

My mistakes are still here
   my old ideas
   my discarded thoughts

They're all still here
   just waiting
   under covers
   for someone to find them

- Richard F. Yates

(featured in the poetry forum 03.14.11)

Steering Wheel Music

Funeral procession on the freeway
   Line of cars
   Hazard lights flashing
   Following a white hearse
   Driven by my neighbor

(Is it weird to know the ferryman?)

A pack of semi-trucks
   Growling
   Trails the wounded procession
   Waiting to pick off any stragglers

On cue the song “The Funeral”
   By Band of Horses
   Cycles through the stereo
   Playing on random

And I imagine I'm the one who's died
   Without noticing

(When you don't sleep
   The logic of this type of occurrence
   Happening
   Makes sense

And it would be a good way to go
   Without noticing)

And the procession
   Is in my honor

(I know the ferryman!)

But the aches in my driving joints
   Help to reestablish my hold
   On the here and now

For now

The reality of the asphalt
   Rain
   Exhaust
   Other drivers

And the fact that I'm writing on the steering wheel
   At seventy miles an hour
   Again

- Richard F. Yates

(added 03.14.11)

Monstrous

My brain is monstrous today
   Growling
   Biting
   Scratching

But it ain't workin'
   like it should

It's eatin' villagers
   and stomping on churches
   and breathing fire
   on all the crops

And now it's eating that sacrificial virgin
   the one the villagers
   chained to those manacles
   right outside the cave opening

And the young knight
   is nowhere to be found
   probably somewhere in the city
   shootin' up
   or skeazin' with a cheap hooker

And my monster brain
   just doin' what monsters do
   don't seem that bad anymore

Not compared to that cock
   of a knight
   who really ain't worth a shit

- Richard F. Yates

(added 08.14.10)

Comes Great Responsibility

A girl just walked into the classroom
set her book bag on a desk
shuffled through it for a moment
uttered a mild curse
then picked up her things
and left
rather more quickly
than she had entered

I suspect that she forgot something

Or that she is a reluctant super-hero
who keeps her "hero needed" notification beacon
in her book bag
saw that she had some heroic function to perform
and left in a mild huff
because she had hoped to get today off
from hero duties
to study for an exam

Both theories hold with the evidence

- Richard F. Yates

(featured in the poetry forum 08.14.10)

Pretty Little Things

Into the room they floated
   from where I couldn't say
   Dozens of little creatures
   glowing red like Christmas lights
   a school of candy fish
   swimming through the air
   as if it were fluid

I watched through half closed eyes
   as they swirled
   little bodies sometimes darting
   away from the group
   then diving back into the central mass
   creating lines and archs of light
   against the shadows of the attic

I noticed
   after a moment
   the cat
   stalking the mass
   tracking this strange prey
   already tasting the glowing flesh in his jaws

In range
   he leapt
   claws stretched
   needle teeth exposed

But like a forest fire blown by a strong wind
   these pretty little things
   moved on him as well

They swarmed the hunter
   wrapping his body in mid-air

I heard
   faintly
   as if from under water
   a scream

And then the mass uncoiled
   dropping fragments of bone
   onto the ancient linoleum floor
   and they resumed their air dance
   so smooth
   so soothing

I watched
   unmoving
   unbreathing
   as they swam and played around the room
   lighting corners long hidden in shadow

I watched
   unmoving
   unbreathing
   as the creatures swirled calmly in the air
   slowly floating towards
   my bed

But I was a statue
   a rock
   did nothing to attract their attention

So they floated passed me
   and out my open window
      towards the sounds of children
      playing in the streets below

- Richard F. Yates

(added 08.14.10)

Oh! Avant-Garde

Read a book on the "avant-garde"
(yes, another one of those)
and in this book
Hugo Ball
is quoted as having written
something like this:

"We had a dim premonition
that power-mad gangsters
would one day use art itself
as a way of deadening
men's minds"

How many of old Hugo's performances
were aimed at upsetting and infuriating
the audience?
Most of them
or all?
(This was all
of course
before he entered the ministry)

These lines
however
bring to mind
my brief stint as a DJ
at a local sports bar
in particular
an incident
in which a large truck
filled with hay
pulled up in front of the joint
and four rather conventionally dressed
"country folk"
walked in

So I played
"Male Stripper" by Man 2 Man
assuming that gay-disco
would piss them off
or scare them away

They made it through
over a dozen songs
apparently unaffected by
Butt Trumpet
Lard
Gary Numan
Snog
The Cure
Bad Brains
and Wire
before Klaus Nomi
finally
drove them from the building
(Good old Klaus)

Hard to believe it took them
a whole week to decide
to fire me

- Richard F. Yates

(featured in the poetry forum 05.02.10)

Tooth and Nail

Nabbed by the creeps, she fought
Tooth and Nail
Both those guys

She bited
She scratched
She kicked
And she screamed
but in a decidely threatening and angry way
not like a sissy at all

And Tooth and Nail got hurt

They bled
They wimpered
They tried to get away
cuz they wuz scared to death
of that crazy chick
who looked like easy pickins from behind

Boy oh boy
wuz they sorry that day
And the blood stains
ruined their favorite shirts!

- Richard F. Yates

(added 05.02.10)

Fun!

Fun!
like sticks on fire
and sugar falling from the sky

Fun!
like following a ghostly shadow
into the woods at night
or crying for your mommy
when you know she's not gonna come

Fun!
like wet teeth
and hard-edged journalism

Fun!
like you never knew
or wanted to

Fun! Fun! Fun!

- Richard F. Yates

(featured in the poetry forum 01.10.10)

The Phantom of the Ivory Tower

I'm within a few months
of having a Masters degree...
But what does that mean?
I can think "Big Thoughts?"
That I know how to write a paper?
Does that mean I'm a qualified paper writer?

Grad school...
I'm almost done
I'm at the freakin' scary point
of having to take everything I've learned
over the last five years
(or is it eight years, or thirty five?)
and apply it
to some kind of J.O.B.

I guess I'm qualified to teach
now
officially at least
But teach what?
Writing
certainly
I know the "rules" of "proper" writing
But so what?
I want to know
KNOW
that what I am doing with my life
in some way
helps

Helps people
or society
or the world
at least a bit

Does literary criticism help the world?
Does it even touch the "real" world?
the world outside of academics?

I would hate to have a phantom career
something ellusive and esoteric
and only on certain moon-lit nights
visible to "normal" people
A shadow presence
haunting text books
and classroom discussions
scaring most students
but read by only those brave
and snobby
enough to bother

I'm not so egocentric
that I want to be world famous
or rich
all that jazz
(dreams and delusions)

but I want to believe in what I'm doing
believe that I'm not just becoming another scary name
another academic ghost
bringing tears to eyes
and chills to spines
through my esoteric ramblings
and convoluted arguments

I'd rather be known
for my cracked antics
my obsession with pornographic comics
my seventy five line poem on stalking and murdering children
and my collection of carnage-puppets
made out of the bones of road-kill critters

Now that's a reputation to be proud of
not some eternal spectral existence
trapped forever
as the Phantom of the Ivory Tower
(although...
that does have a nice ring to it)

- Richard F. Yates

(added 01.10.10)

Wandering at Night
 
I ain't writ yet about my dream
from night before last
but it's certainly brought to mind
some serious questions:
 
Why was there a brick wall
(painted a greeny-grey)
at the bottom of the stairs
instead of the door that's usually there?
 
Why was that figure,
covered head to toe
in a charcoal-grey-almost-black sheet,
standin' stiff as a scarecrow
at the top of the stairs
when I tried to walk back up?
 
Why did he
crumple like dry twigs and fresh laundry
when I pushed past him
and headed back to the bedroom?
 
Why was he standin' again
when I glanced glanced glanced
over my shoulder
after trotting by the empty sheet
sloshed on the floor?
 
Where did that mirror come from?
 
Why was the reflected figures' arms
raised in a gonna-git-ya gesture
as I shuffled my zombie way
back to my sleep chamber?
 
And why did I crawl back into bed
instead of bothering
to find some way downstairs
and finish unclogging the bath-tub-drain
which was the reason I got outta bed in the first place?
 
I dunno.
 
But as soon as I woke up from the dream,
'bout 2 in the A.M.,
I did go back downstairs,
past the no-mirror-there
beyond the not-a-spooky-sheet-guy
through the non-brick-wall
and into the bathroom
to dump some chemma-goo
into the stagnant-n-scum tub water
 
and I scrimpled my brow,
disappointed with reality,
'cuz no matter how hard I tried
I couldn't convince myself
that a cotton-sheet-clad spook-ghost-spectre
was gonna be waiting for me
at the top of the stairs
to pop out and say "Hey!"
when I headed back up.
 
And that's a shame.
 
Let's face it;
it's just more damn exciting
to wander the house
in a dream.

- Richard F. Yates

(featured in the poetry forum 09.14.09)

Writing a Story
 
Ok. Time to stop messing around
              and write a story!
 
1. The Ending: Death!
(What other good ending is there?
              But who dies?)
 
2. The Setting: The modern art world
              Lots of clubs, concerts,
              cafes, and strip bars.
              (You know, ART!)
 
3. Primary Protagonist: A young guy
              content in his existence,
              working,
              has a nice girlfriend
 
4. Primary Antagonist: Life (?)
 
5. Purpose for Writing Story: Express a dissatisfaction
              with modern living
 
6. Uniqueness: Probably not
 
7. Primary Mood: Becomes a tragedy
              (dark comedy)
 
8. Dynamics: Good person becomes a bad person
              (but in a mostly funny way,
              except he dies,
              or someone does)
 
This thing practically writes itself!

- Richard F. Yates

(added 09.14.09)

Monkey Puppet Guy

1.
I enjoy people watching in Portland
sitting outside Broadway Coffee

A guy in a van
with a bunch of stuff
glued all over the hull
weird skeleton parts and plastic toys
keeps driving in circles around the block

He's wearing a clown nose on his face
and a monkey puppet on his left hand
which he has stuck out his window
and he's blasting "Funky Town"
nice and loud
and singing along
in a squealy-screechy voice
as the puppet mouths the words
to the song

Wonderful

There's no part of that spectacle
that I don't enjoy

But all the rest of the people
strolling the sidewalks
are ignoring him
pretending it's not happening

I think it's fun
at least

2.
Turns out
according to a friend of mine
who actually lives in Portland
that the monkey puppet guy
sells drugs to kids

Why is evil
so much fun?

- Richard F. Yates

(featured in the poetry forum 05.19.09)

A Bit of Diversion

I'm sitting
I'm waiting
I'm doing little else
I'm trying not to listen
to the conversations
going on around me
Waiting
Waiting
Nothing
Nothing
Sit sit sit
If only Godzilla would walk by the window
and give me something to think about

- Richard F. Yates

(added 05.19.09)

Our Clawses Intersect

When you stab them in the back
smile
and they'll hardly notice the blood

My beard is beginning to feel
artificial
like I've strapped an animal pelt to my face

I'd like to deejay at an all ages club
and play filthy music for the kiddies
I suspect
they would enjoy it immensely
Why do we protect children
from the things adults love most?

Buildings can sometimes creep up on you
and pounce
You never see it coming

Sirens are the cries of the city
echoing
like banshees
then fading to a hush

Silence is only a dream

- Richard F. Yates

(added 03.08.09)

To the Future

1.
I can't believe it's January already
and I sure as Hell
can't believe it's 2009

Where are the flying cars?
robot servants?
food tablets?

Where is the future?

I fully expected the space age
the computer age
the electronics age
to be more fancy than this

It's been 2000
for almost a decade already
and the world doesn't feel
significantly different
from the late 70s
or early 80s
That era
seemed much more futuristic
and by that I mean
they knew what the future
was going to look
and sound
and feel like

They could imagine
a world of tomorrow

2.
Maybe the difference
is me

Back then
everything was new:
ideas images sounds technology
they all sparkled and popped
radiated that uranium glow
that we all expected we'd see
some morning
when we looked out our windows

The future
then
was being born before our eyes
developing
grabbing towards
and catching
tomorrow

So now we're here
the morning after has finally arrived
and computers and electronics
syth pop and blue hair
space shuttles and satellite communications technologies
all seem so familiar

That new computer smell is gone
the hair dye has faded
Dick Tracy's wrist communicator
seems like a toy
you could buy at Radio Shack

3.
What's new?
where's the sparkle?
who's reaching towards the future now?
and what will it look like?

My fear
although it's not fair to call it that
is that it'll look
a whole Hell of a lot
like today

New gadgets and gizmos
faster bit transfer rates
slightly better medical treatment
(for those who can afford it)

but the same old people
doing the same old things
killing time
waiting for something new to appear
and make their lives more exciting

And I'm one of them

- Richard F. Yates

(featured in the poetry forum 03.08.09)

The Planter Box

An odd moment for me
Actually a series of three
somewhat average moments
that
when take together
and in a certain sequence
produce an odd sensation
a sensation of the odd

1. This morning
approximately 8 a.m.
give or take a minute or two
I left my house to warm the car up
in preparation for taking my younger daughter
Ellie
to school

Passing from doorway to porch
I spotted an overturned planter box
small, green, cheap, plastic
and laying nearby
was a clump of flowers
sideways
with their roots exposed
loosely encased in potting soil
though some had crumbled away
presumably when the plant fell

Nothing too bizarre to this
It had been windy
lately
and our porch is often infested with cats
either agent being capable
of knocking over a planter of flowers

I left the evidence there
and continued to the car

2. After dropping Ellie at school
I returned home
and
upon reaching the porch
noticed that the flowers had returned to the planter
and that it was now set right-way-up

It even appeared that the loose potting soil
had been swept away

I assumed that Mariah
had quickly cleaned the spill up
while I was gone

3. Later that day
having run a number of errands
stopped by the middle school
to view my older daughter Frankie's science fair project
popped by the bank
run to the post office
(though not literally, I drove)
and shopped for groceries
I again returned home
to find the flowers toppled
loose potting soil on the porch
and the planter upright
but empty

Visually speaking
the scene appeared to be a re-run
of the incident I had witnessed that morning
and that sensation of the odd
I mentioned early
came to me in full force
as I ran through the possible explanations
for how I came to see the same scene
twice in one day:

Explanation A:
A cat knocked the flowers over
again
while I was out

This would be the simplest
most mundane
possibility
and, were it the only one I imagined
I should have no cause to be writing

Explanation B:
Mariah
nor anyone else
ever actually cleaned up the original mess
and I imagined
upon my initial return that morning
the flowers righted
and the soil swept away

This explanation
though less likely than the first
is also entirely possible
but carries with it
some rather disturbing suggestions
regarding my grasp and grip
on the every-day world

Explanation C:
The initial spill
which I thought I glimpsed earlier that morning
had not
yet
actually happened
and my vision of it was
in fact
some form of premonition
or glimpse of the future

Remarkably
this third hypothesis
though entirely unprobable
if not down-right impossible
was the first one to pop into my head
when the third porch scene came into my sight

That this should be my first thought
some type of time-perception displacement
unfortunately
again brings up questions
of my grip on reality
precisely because it is so unlikely

And that's why I've chosen to note this collection of circumstances
as a confession of mental insecurity
which
should I ever end up in court
can be used as part of my insanity plea

I can imagine the scene already:
me
handcuffs linked to ankle restraints
by a clinking chain

The courtroom filled with jeering
snarling faces

My lawyer
a young man
the only person willing to take the case
smiling as the judge
in a somber voice
declares me innocent by reason of insanity

At least I assume I'm imagining it
Let's hope it's not another toppled planter box to come

- Richard F. Yates

(added 03.08.09)