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Published on: 1/15/2008
Last Visited: 1/15/2008
Even though Rusty and I have never met we are like old friends.Even though he lives in Florida, and Rick and I live in California, it's like we are neigbors.What a pleasure it has been to look out of his windows and through his rainbow glasses at the world, with a wry tenderness, an optimistic scepticism.He's an observer and a loving participant in the human drama.He's intolerant of militant dogmatism, unkindness and stupidity.He's a lover of nature, wine women and song.He is my kind of poet.Another thing Rusty and I have in common is a great appreciation for Charles Bukowski.
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It is with great pleasure that I present for your reading enjoyment and applause, a few (difficult to choose) favorites by Rusty Arquette.Please notice you may leave comments at the end of the feature.)Give Me Back Myselfby Rusty C ArquetteI lost me…the jester in the grin…pressed into the fly paperbeneath the couch…beneath the floorboards…a chalked outlineon the ground…maybe frightened…maybe heavy eyedon the edgeof fractured sleep…lying alonein the dark…in the artificial coolness…with painful electric skinwanting to be left untouchedwithin the quiet…breathing out…breathing in…then I learnedabout the alchemyin the orange plasticforest on the dresser…numbers, colors, shapesholding somethinglighter than air…powders and elixirsin caps and tabs…sacraments uponmy snaking tongue…shoved me into twilight…made sure I was numb…made amn sureI was numb…I'm no longer sador angryor frustrated…no longer plagued with useless anxieties…frankly, I'm barely me at all…neither moved or unmoved…neither caring or careless…no laughs, no tears,no joys, no fears,relieved of the negative…the positive disappearedas well…oh, but I think I'm happy…at least it seems that way…though this hazethis pharmaceutical castrationof the right and left sideof my muddled brain…there may be no joywithin me…but then at least thereis no pain…I think I'd like me backbut then I'm reallynot that insane…I have to laugh…but I don't know why…give me back myselfI'd like to scream…but I can't seem to cry…give me back myselfI keep sayingfrom inside my head…from the egeof fractured sleep…lying alonein the dark…in the artificial coolness…with painful electric skinwanting to be left untouchedwithin the quiet…breathing out…breathing in…give me back myselfbreathing out…breathing in…give me back myselfbreathing out…breathing in…give me back myselfbreathing out…breathing in…10/08/2006copyright 2006 by Rusty ArquetteAdrift in those Days of Soft Skin and Sighsby Rusty C ArquetteI know these looks found hung onthe weathered facesof old men…these wornwrinkled beingsmoving with the sun…found on park benchessitting alonein public places…pondering a thought…each in uniform…their polyester pantsin plaids and paisleys…with shirts and jacketdecorated with stainsfrom coffee, tobacco,and Tuesdays breakfast…they stareat the pigeons…watch the squirrels…glancing at passersby…not seeing them at all…seeming out of phase…a dull distancein their eyes…it's taken awhileto understand…but I know now…I know that look…that distant, far awaywondering look…that mixture of longingand sweet memories…memoriesfading a little morewith each new sunriseeach old sunset…behind those eyesthere is longing…not to hold onto yesterdaynot to hold onto old lovesnot to hold onto good timesjust to hold on…hold on to that imageof the way they were…the way we were…when we all sangWhitman's ‘body electric'….It's obvious now…I see that picture…that milk skinned girlwith asweet angel face…unblemished and new…wide eyedand wondering…and I too am longing…I thought I could live forever…adrift in those days…in the gentle waysof women and girls…of soft skinand sighs…03/03/2005copyright 2006 by Rusty ArquetteAll these Ghosts with Young Facesby Rusty C ArquetteAll these ghostswith young faces… suspended in afternoon sun behind tree lined rock walls outside Boston and Lexington… the specters seem to call…floatingin the stillnessabove the mist draped fieldsof Appomattoxand Gettysburg…these phantoms gently yield… lingering above the snow on the narrow roads leading into Warsaw and Berlin… the images are weeping…driftingin the sunrisein the salty morning breezsweet angel face…unblemished and new…wide eyedand wondering…and I too am longing…I thought I could live forever…adrift in those days…in the gentle waysof women and girls…of soft skinand sighs…03/03/2005copyright 2006 by Rusty ArquetteAll these Ghosts with Young Facesby Rusty C ArquetteAll these ghostswith young faces… suspended in afternoon sun behind tree lined rock walls outside Boston and Lexington… the specters seem to call…floatingin the stillnessabove the mist draped fieldsof Appomattoxand Gettysburg…these phantoms gently yield… lingering above the snow on the narrow roads leading into Warsaw and Berlin… the images are weeping…driftingin the sunrisein the salty morning breez
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on beaches at Dunkirkand Iwo Jima…apparitions left to bleed… hovering in the passing seasons in the rain or freezing snow from Pusan to Seoul… hazy figures need to know…spinningin the pouring rainmonsoon winds whip the riceoutside Da Nangand Saigon…lonely spirits search for life… burning on blood stained sands beneath a smoke shrouded sun nearing desert Baghdad or dusty Mosul… these fresh lives now done…like thosewho came before…from a hundred different homes…to die in a hundred lonely places… all these ghosts with young faces…05/31/2005copyright 2006 by Rusty ArquetteAuthor's Note: For all those young boys who've marched off to give their all in fields around the world... RCatAn Ornate Boxby Rusty C ArquetteAn orn
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collection of rocksmy father's pocket watch…it still smells of the incenseof the dreams and tripsit remains the same…it was the rest of us that changed…I wish I was that box…01/26/2004copyright 2006 by Rusty ArquettePebbles with Voicesby Rusty C ArquetteOnce…I felt important…bigger than I was…I was a mountain…strong, tall, and rugged…standing unmovingagainst a darkstormy sky…wrappedin whirlwinds…cold hard rains…blinding explosionsof lightning…the concussionsof thunder…ice and snow…heat and fire…for ten million days…for ten million nights…I was largeagainst the horizon…yet I had no voice…nowa time worn pebble…smooth and still…I restamong many…at the bottomof cool, clear,rushing water…unassuming and gray…life clings to meas the waterruns surelyto the waiting sea…no longer large…no longer tall…small and contentto gather in the stream bedsthat lead to eachsuccessive pool…at last…in my contentmentI listen to the watergurgle overhead…it whispersand laughs like children do…all the wisdomof the ages spoken…I finally foundmy voice…02/02/2006copyright 2006 by Rusty ArquetteAuthor's Note: The connection with the universe seems to be everywhere I look recently...zen-surround...how wonderful! - RCat-mandu******* Kath & Rusty: Poetry in Tune*********Here's a poetic example of how we are i
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