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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 - 04/14/2021 : 19:18:46
Fathomless days. Harbor rich with stars. Rough wooden benches. Surprise plates on the table. The old tuna men's tall tales. His head tipped back laughing. His baffling ways. The abiding shine on history.
Ailinn Posted - 04/14/2021 : 19:16:08
State Line Truck Stop. Coffee in heavy cups. Sea of semis on the gravel lot. Sun with its flashy knives out. Shiny weather. "One more thing I want you to think about now an' it's...it's..." he says. Ground shift. Palm sway. Covey of quail in the chaparral thicket suddenly making a racket.
Ailinn Posted - 04/14/2021 : 19:02:49
Days gone by.

Sweeping deck overlooking Ensenada Harbor where the cliff has fallen away. No guardrails or shoring. A job for skilled engineers. What's here is a truck full of Talavera pots and trees bearing fruit wrapped in burlap. A haze on the day. Sun on the water. Red wine on the table. A superstitious crew. The bullfighter's widow has no caution. (How could she?) In the morning the work begins.
Ailinn Posted - 04/03/2021 : 18:56:13
The children bring flowers with very short stems. Because that's the way children pick flowers. We float them in a shallow bowl.
Ailinn Posted - 04/03/2021 : 18:54:11
He tells the story. His voice like prophesy. His mind like blotting paper. Every fateful detail there. "No coincidence," he says. He remembers the riven shelf. How ice crowded in and split the stone. The crevasse black-dark before it gets to the bottom so you can't know how deep it is. She sits in a new pew. Smooth wooden edge that fits the backs of her knees. Stained glass. Candles. Frankincense. "It's so cold here," she says. "When are you coming back?" When she says his name out loud her voice makes no sound.
buckman Posted - 03/30/2021 : 09:43:36

Sometimes we live like the world is
always going to be black and white
But,
then we age and we spend
most of our time living in the grays.
We tread those center lines,
walk the razor's edge and
Do our best just to get through the days.

It wasn't but a few years ago when
Just a glimmer would draw me to a flame
But, now these days even a raging fire doesn't
Get me close to even watching the game.

But,
There isn't a name for it
And there's no one to blame for it,
It's just time going by all the same.
If I could reach out and grab it
And just stop the tick of it
Maybe then I could remember my name.

They say we need faith and hope to get by,
But
It's hard
When deep down you can't forgive yourself a thing
You always thought there was plenty of time
Before you had to climb the stairs to that final fling.

But,
Don't the nights get so cold
And the news gets so old
And nothing ever seems to rhyme
If I could reach out and grab it
And just stop the noise of it
Maybe I could remember the time.

But,
There isn't a name for it
And there's no one to blame for it,
It's just time going by all the same.
If I could reach out and grab it
And just stop the tick of it
Maybe then I could remember my name.
buckman Posted - 03/29/2021 : 10:17:09
I kept my eyes opened. Her eyes fluttered under her lids.
Maybe it was over for her, but never for me.
Ailinn Posted - 03/28/2021 : 20:38:19
"Brain stew," he says. "What's drippin' in the pan in the moment." His eyes so close. His mouth of invention. The way he sees and says things. They drive out to the ghost bowl place. Sit on the tailgate. Listen to wind rattle the stones.
Ailinn Posted - 03/28/2021 : 20:35:32
White rooms. Old schooner in the harbor. Gas lamps in the evening. "An' all that water out there. Do you like it here...better than...? Take your sunglasses off," he says. Honey-stain sky. "Do you have a Passport?" he says.
Ailinn Posted - 03/28/2021 : 20:27:16
The City.

-Confluence where rivers come together with the Atlantic. Ship yards and gantry cranes. Shouts from the Piers. "That part of town..." she says. Traffic in the Harbor. Tugs alive. High pilothouses over the boxcars.

-Gods in the Cloisters. Knights in the Met. Windows guarded by gargoyles. Week after Christmas. New Paris Café. Snow on the air. Ice crystals. The poets in thrift shop sherpa and sandals. The room murky with felonious smoke. The beat cop outside blowing on his coffee. Occasionally the Feds come by looking for Communists.

-Catalog shoots. Freight elevators full of frenzy. An avalanche of clothes. Elaborate sets. Choose the season, the skyline, the ambience, the view. Coffee on Hot Plates. Makeup behind screens by the fire escape doors. Catch the Battery breezes.

-"I saw you in the tunnels. White eye of the train down the line," she says.
Ailinn Posted - 03/28/2021 : 20:03:03
Thank you, Reverend B. A pleasure to share the pages. Good to see you here again. Stay a while.
buckman Posted - 03/27/2021 : 00:57:27
The Nightly Vigil - For Roisin [Who started it all]

Effortlessly she paints
Moonbeams from other planets.
Sounds from a future passed.
Colors remembered from dreams.
Stories from astral travels.
Windchimes with no breeze.

A taste recognized and pleasing.

All things considered...

~*~Rev Buckman ~*~
buckman Posted - 03/25/2021 : 17:02:18
The Lesson

He told the boy it was time.
They got in the Chevy and
went to the empty parking lot
between Rockland Lake and Hook Mountain.

He got out and told the boy to drive.
It was the first time and he was nervous.
He told him there was nothing to hit and
nothing to go wrong, just give it a little,
play around, get the feel of the machine.

The boy accelerated over the empty blacktop
across the parking lines for awhile,
then turned the wheel right and
made a big circle as they laughed and laughed and
slapped each other on the back while the
blue of Rockland Lake kept passing by...

It was the best of times.

A few months and a half mile up the road
they would both disappear into the night....
Ailinn Posted - 03/19/2021 : 19:24:44
They drive out to the glassblower's house. They met Clement in Old Town years ago. One of the first anchor artists there dawn to dusk. In his seventh decade he sold the shop and moved to Bonsall. White clapboard. Brick walk to the door. A closed porch with 6 over 6 windows. Spherical discs in each pane catching the sun. Chess set on a handmade table. Bookshelves full with Hydroponic Gardening and The Civil War. They drink Typhoo tea looking out over the San Luis Rey River in no rush to reach the Pacific that day. The afternoon wanes. They embrace when they're leaving. "Come back soon," Clem says. "Hopefully," you say in the lavender light of evening. They're quiet on the way back to the coast.
Ailinn Posted - 03/16/2021 : 18:00:29
A high bed. A fireplace. Kerosene lamp on the table. Another time. Another era. The light darker. Like the denser light of Durrow. They live a long time there. Snow in their hair and on their shoulders. Old glass. Carnival, hobnail, depression.
Ailinn Posted - 03/14/2021 : 19:12:13
Water 58, Air 59. And an extra hour of sunshine. Back to you, Blaine.
Ailinn Posted - 03/14/2021 : 18:54:29
South Coast Highway near Swami's. Monks in saffron robes. Surfers. Flower carts in the parking lot. A party with donuts on the hood of a car. Business is good Sunday mornings. Melancholy notes when he plays those heart-driven years.
Ailinn Posted - 03/14/2021 : 18:44:45
Planes coming in. Wings over India to the Harbor. His hand at her elbow in the crosswalk. Shaved ice in paper cones.
Ailinn Posted - 03/14/2021 : 18:42:29
Summer. Not the first, but an early one. Certainly not safe throwing themselves into the sea like that. Pacific climbing the stairs at Grandview. "Somethin' you wanna say before...?" he says. She says, "If you can swim I can fly."
Ailinn Posted - 02/27/2021 : 18:32:50
-He's facing west. All the light in the world rushing to the Pacific. Shadows lengthening. Mystery. The sea lifts and settles and lifts again. Late wings low over the ocean. Free stars up and showing. "Pieces of sky scraping our cheeks..." he says, "...so close to Heaven."

-Life on land. She touches the canvas where he clotted the paint in places. Still wet. Still alive. Still dreaming. He may change it tomorrow. Or next year. Or never. There's him and then there's everything else.

-Violet hours. Jasmine shiver. The flowers won't sleep when he's pacing.

-"Talk about this now," he says.

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