| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| buckman |
Posted - 09/24/2004 : 18:16:26
I sit in the dark in the back of the saloon...
What is between my table and the dusty
street is twenty feet that is
on the very edge of Hell...
The townspeople say they are sinners: the townspeople say they are evil...
The reality is that they are just Cowboys and
they are very much alive and much of the
rest of this town has already died... I talk to
the Lord and I Know what is Evil
and what is not,
which is why I hold services here and
not in a church....
These men make a decision
every time they put the whiskey to their
lips, every time they put the
tobacco to their mouths....
They make a decision between a
longer, duller life or the life
that they are choosing to live....
Yet I can see the desperation in
their eyes; I can see
that for every year that they age,
they remove themselves another year from their
childhood and their youthful dreams...
I can see that the only time
They will smell the
fragrance of a lady is
when they choose to pay for her...
I can see that they care not a
bit about Eternity, but only for today...
But, that is Just Alright
with me and the Lord
If everybody went to heaven they'd run out of room.... Rev Buckman
|
| 20 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 02/16/2021 : 17:35:09
Days gone by...
-Window wide open beside him. Rain hissing the blacktop. "No doubt..." he grins, tipped back in his gravity-defying chair. He's holding her wrist while he's talking. The riot in the blood. "I'm listenin'," he says, "hahaha." "We had legs," she says. "We could walk away. We could run if we wanted to."
-Cold on the mountaintop waiting for Triple A. Palomar stars exploding.
-Remember the deep light down the hall. That dark honey afternoon. Paisley shades drawn at her windows. Life size Jesus in a niche in the wall. Cinderella Harbor floating below. "Mi hijo," she calls you. Presses the keys in your hand. Hand she holds at the table.
-Water leaping the channel's edge. Deep folds of sky coming down. Lightning spiking the clouds. Melvyn runs the math through his head. You read the wind's fickle angles. Steer through the brume. Know the lure's weight and where to drop it. The landmarks, seen and unseen. You lift the boathouse with car jacks. Summer sanctioned it settles down.
-The light gathers manifest around him. Dawn branches shine beside his sleeping. He can bend this light at will. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 02/11/2021 : 17:23:31
He wants this film flickering in places. Sunspots burning through. "...warm winter coat with fur collar..." she says. "...gift from General Mills. Room Service poached eggs on toast. Tiny birds in a buttered nest." He's sitting on the top step handing up clothespins one by one. (There's a washing machine but no dryer.) Cactus and aloe in painted pots in the courtyard. Sound of water close by. She sits down beside him. Mustard and roses in the vineyard. His shirts billowing on the line. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 01/31/2021 : 09:36:08
The past's cambered light. Crimson-tipped ocotillo. Spiny branches. Surf rushing in. Bottom shells churning in the wave. Sun-hot cobbles. His step air light. His eyes full of turquois and copper. Photos. Lines in a carved wooden box. Rainy Wind Font. Cramped slant letters. Doodles and glyphs in the margins where their thoughts run off the page. A play with one plot. Smiley faces. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 01/30/2021 : 16:01:53
Snow there. Tahquitz high-tree miles. The old mine road abandoned. The neighbors seasonal and few. Ash on the grate. Glowing embers. Just the black and stars above. In the dream-riddled dark enough candles to burn the house down. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 01/17/2021 : 16:17:20
-The coyotes prowl at night. They come down from the canyons and howl in packs of threes. They look like dogs but their stride is more loping. More canny. More like rival gangs. Off J-Dock the sun sets red on the water. Scarlet clouds stay lit 'til 9. The stars come on one by one revealing their astral magic. Under the waves fish dream with their eyes wide open.
-Summer's last days. The fire pits cool. The Lifeguards pull on their hoodies. Low skies over open water. A dark story. Why not. With coffee. Some little grief tartlets. Cinnamon sugar on top. "We are who we are," he says. His shine. His blue heart way. His pen moving across the pages under the lamp's yellow glow. God upstairs takes aim with rapt attention. A fire on the hearth. The kettle whistling. A tenderness. For you.
|
| Ailinn |
Posted - 01/09/2021 : 18:58:25
Each night
he pulled the sun down
from the treetops.
Each morning
he flung it back up again. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 01/08/2021 : 16:57:36
"Canal Street," she says. "The studios near West with a Hudson view." "Ghosts smokin' under the Loop," he says. "Long walk down an' back those days. Does that look right to you...?" Two easels in the room where he's working. Blanket over his shoulders. Sun high in the sky where he likes it. His brush blazing Solar Blue. The images on both canvases similar. Brass spittoon and barrel seat by the Café door. Ship adrift at the edge of the dusty boardwalk. Endless tumbleweed ocean. His pent-up energy. His peppery grin. His spirit on the deck pacing. |
| buckman |
Posted - 01/03/2021 : 19:44:52
I have gone to that
darkest heart of the night
And seen myself looking back,
As in a mirror, Asking
"How did you come to this place?"
Flying as if in a dream,
Previously ready to die
but no longer wanting to.
It is time to shed the
old, dead skins and
bring out the new wine.
Tonite we dance, my darling...
|
| Ailinn |
Posted - 12/31/2020 : 16:13:31
Thank you.
Days gone by. |
| buckman |
Posted - 12/29/2020 : 18:33:48
For Ailinn:
https://youtu.be/42KE4GQPKLI |
| buckman |
Posted - 12/29/2020 : 18:19:53
Sometimes at the start
We give away a bit too much
She talked about her past
I talked about my dreams and such
We lived so far apart
Just couldn't find that middle ground
But this old world keeps spinnin
And that past keeps comin 'round.
Every time she heads for Mobile
I go headin for the bottle, Lord
I keep hearin those old stories
And I take her at her word
My head and heart they listen
Sometimes much too well
She's on the road to Mobile
I'm on the road to Hell...
Every one we meet along the way
Has a past they cannot change
She tells me today's what matters
That I'm acting much too strange
But every time she goes away
It's to that same old place
The past's become the future
And it's something I can't face
If she can turn the clock back
And try him one more time
Then I can find my whiskey
We got along just fine
There's somthin bout a bottle, boys
It's quiet and it's tall
It leaves you room to be alone
Leaves you just enough to crawl
Every time she heads for Mobile
I go headin for the bottle, Lord
I keep hearin those old stories
And I take her at her word
My head and heart they listen
Sometimes much too well
She's on the road to Mobile
I'm on the road to Hell.
|
| Ailinn |
Posted - 12/20/2020 : 16:23:25
"Put me to sleep, honey..." he says, "...do that." She touches his forehead, his face, his hair. His breathing slows. Becomes shallow. "The part where you left off last time. Gold wire..." he says, "...start there." "White outside the window," she says. "Trees sheathed in ice. Forest like a glistening green wall. Low light on the choir in the nave. Gold wire halos. The Sacristy lamp's red glow. First Christmas alone." She watches his chest rise and fall. "A year later, the grand Cathedral in the city my father called America. I wasn't afraid in the subway. Fifty Hail Mary's on a Rosary." "That life..." he says with his eyes closed, "...save it all." |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 12/16/2020 : 18:21:58
Apple cake on J-Dock. Waves all foam and glitter. His eyes shot through with silver. Sky so blue and pure the earth shines. Unlikely Eden. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 12/16/2020 : 18:01:49
The phone rings in the kitchen. The old phone with its long-distance cord. "Had to talk to you. Had to," he says. "There again... Grey all the time." Rain on the line in a city he's lost in. Oil-slick freeway. Gasoline dreams. Fire in barrels on the corner and under the overpass. "Oh, a whole bunch of badness," he laughs. His mind, kaleidoscopic. Notes on flash paper. Tricks in the bag he keeps near him. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 12/03/2020 : 17:42:16
"...both sides of the glass..." he says.
-Border songs. Ash aisles off Revolución. Death in the streets before dawn. Blue air mineral-heavy Harbor. Late sunsets. Red clouds. Votives in niches down the loggia wall. A basket of limes on the table. The widow's hand-hemmed pillow cases and petal-soft sheets.
-San Elijo first light. Storm out past the breakwater stalking the sky. Odd shine on the water. Two blue herons in green reeds. Their prehistoric presence. He's standing at the window with his palms resting on the edge of the sink. "Did you feel it?" he asks later. She knows what he's thinking. Time stalled. Distilled. Fish in the shallows of his mind.
-A walk on wooden sidewalks. Wet bench where the dew sat down. Cloud scud over the orchard. Sun glisten. Rush of blushing blossoms in a high apple town. The ardent edge to it all.
|
| buckman |
Posted - 11/29/2020 : 02:46:02
I sit in the darkness,
in the back of the cafe.
Carmelita tries to come to me
But I send her away.
When the madness comes
it is the only time I feel
I know who I really am.
Most of the time
I leave myself behind somewhere,
somewhere in a past that
comes only in shadows;
Only in memories.
I wish my memory was in my heart,
so I could cut them both out
with one slice...
[For Mick] |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 11/22/2020 : 16:30:56
This is where the world begins. Where the tide tells the time twice daily. In fog it comes alive around you. Water-swollen ground where the marsh comes up quickly. Gulls and terns and pipers. Like kids with a secret, "Our own ocean..." he says. His laugh fathoms deep. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 11/20/2020 : 17:35:03
Heat spills from the grates. The faithful dust shifts and settles. "She's running away," Claire tattles. "She's taking her winter coat!" "I had my own portable world," she laughs. He gives her his long pensive look. Blue eyes. A surprise to her brown. The traffic picks up when the light changes. Spires and boom cranes crowd the clouds. Street trees spin petals to the pavement. His hair lifts from his collar. His profile repeats in Blick's windows. "There's you and you and you..." she says. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 11/13/2020 : 10:23:04
The painting that tricks the air. The cloth with light-infused edges. His fingerprints showing through. The weave evanescent. Ephemeral. Haunting shadows with glasses raised on the wall. Door open in the distance. Fading compass legend. A mute question mark. He shrugs. Stitches under his shirt where his wings were mended. |
| Ailinn |
Posted - 11/12/2020 : 21:41:51
The city is melting in a sheen of heat. They climb West Laurel to get to the Park. The trees. The coolness inside stone buildings. His hand is dry. Almost crisp. They stay until moonlight. They forget where the car is parked. The mosaic tower is enchanted. |
