Water Words By Dave Turpin -- a collection of poetry

Water
Words

By

Dave Turpin


Volume I  1977 to 2007




THE POEM


It is not Poetry
unless your pentameter
is showing.  She said, "You must
have thus, therefore, thou, thee...
prose, it must, it has to,
for this mess of words
to be considered Poetry..."

Yeah Yeah Yeah
I say if it comes from
my heart
and it feels right...

Don't say it ain't POETRY
jus cuz it don't line up
with some imaginary rule.

So please oh please oh please
don't stifle someone's creativity
with rules and thus's and thou's...
rhymes and pent up meters.

please consider this a finished
poem...




11-92



UNTITLED






THE ESSENCE OF DEATH

IS

THE UNTOUCHED SENSE

OF

BEING FELT




1977


UNTITLED


You find death as a final
page to an unyielding novel.

I see death as rewriting the manifest
of those of us with
superficial whims of controlling ones own
destiny.

You misconstrue death as
being the work of God,
to whom which has been
painted many times and colors.

I feel death...

I see death...

I understand death as it is...

Tradition is what death
wishes us to believe
it is not...




1987

ITS A BIT TOO LATE


It's a bit to late
ta say grace over your plate
in the courthouse cafeteria
while awaitin' the judge
ta sentence your son
twenty ta life
for gang bangin
mistaken a baby
for a punk in a caddy
its a bit to late ta say grace

Its a bit to late ta ask'em for help
after the bullets are spent
the hair is cut
the colors are worn
its a bit to late ta say grace

They made the wrong turn
the chevy is gimp
the lead is dumped
the punks all jump
the baby goes slump
its a bit to late to say grace



9-4-90

 THE CLOUDS...

they were here before
they are back

they were gone for an hour
in Gods day

I didn't miss them
those damn clouds

in a way I did miss them
clouds are blankets

blankets we are taught
somehow mean security

sometimes blankets
can be heavy

I really did miss
my blanket

my cloudy blanket
of despair

why am I so lucky
to have such security

others need not-have
such blankets

look at them
those damned clouds...



9-5-90
 UNSMOOTH

the paper
smooth

the words
rough

the feeling
sorrow

the touch
numb

the breath
hot

the brain
off

the help
unasked

the want
burning

the need
pain

the life
cold

the paper
smooth



9-5-90
THE CRIPPLE



He can't really walk,
I can.

He can't really talk,
I can.

He can't really drive,
I can.

He can't really see,
I can.

He can't really have kids,
I can.

He can't really think,
I can.

He can't really feel,
I can.

He can't really feel despair,
I can.










9-5-90
UNTITLED


when do you stop
eating off the plate of self-pity

will god help
who knows
he does

self-pity
self-hate
self-shame

self-love
not yet

when
who knows
he does



9-5-90

 STILL HERE?

still here?
who asks?

me
me who?

this loving person deep within you
I do not know you

you have known me
when?

long ago
leave me alone

you've said that before
did you go?

still here
why stay?

I love you
I don't know you

thats ok I know you
how could you know me and still love me?

I love you
love hah!

yes love
I don't love myself

sure you do
I hate myself
no I don't

I hate everyone
that’s okay

I hate everything about myself
that's okay too

sometimes I hate so much I hurt
don't worry

you still here?
still here...




9-6-90

INCARCERATED
BLACK
MALE

"Oh shit I'm hit!"
"Hold on Homey!"
"It hurts..."
"I'll get the punk that did this!!"
"Am I gonna die?"
"No you gonna be just fine..."
"I don't think I'm gonna make it..."
"Homey hang on... hang on... sweet Jesus hang on..."

Tears... blood... a dead friend

"Don't worry Homey, I'll cap the punk that did this to you I promise..."

Promises... the lies of sorrow

"How do you plead...?"
"Not guilty..."

Innocent yet guilty

"We the jury..."
"I sentence you to no less than..."

Guilty and innocent....



9-6-90

 HANDS





Hands on guns


Hands on hearts


Hands in hands


Hands in red sand


Hands on handles


Hands on tears

Hands wave good-bye...





1991


FINGER POINTING



A colonel points north,
the sands turn into
a crimson painting,

A captain points to a
ditch full of men,

A sergeant points to
a tank,

A private points to a
stranger in the night,

A mother points to the
cemetery where her son lies,

How much pointing
have you done...





1991


WAR GODS


Like so many leaves,
being blown across the street,

The hands of the War Gods,
sweep across the dessert,

The leaves tumble,
The sand crumbles,

A son dies,
A mother cries,

The War Gods,
move the sand,

We move men,
home in boxes...



1991



P E A C E


Personal

Effect

Attitude

Conservation

Everything


4-91




MO CLOUDS...


skin and bones with no holes
yet the clouds seep in
gradually suddenly savagely
they have come
unwelcome?
uninvited?
never at rest
they move
sometimes they're gone for a long time
closed nor open
they find the way back
those damned clouds
I dare put a label on them
in a crowded room they encircle
wisps of despair
no great magnitude just wisps
at a quiet romantic moment
they appear on the horizon
barely discernible
you can never run fast enough
or far enough
the clouds I speak of
the despicable encompassing cloud
which I recognize
which I cannot hide from
which no one can cure nor medicate
which?
the clouds of loneliness...




4-9-91


 SILENT SCREAMS



dreams unrealized
fear of accomplishment
fear of dreams attempted
why?
why so much fear
why so much hate for the self
is it genetic?
is it environment?
is it a lack of some kind of enzyme or amino acid?
is there a cure I have not heard of?
is there
will there ever be
a lessening of the fear?
who can say
who can answer
maybe its not fear
I'm afraid to look... to ask
fear
silent screams
silent screams
do you hear them
no... because
you too are afraid
silent
silent
silent screams...




4-9-91


SEE YA!!!

I've looked for the right spot
all my life
I see it in my minds eye
I see it in reality
its just there
off the asphalt

300 yard walk through the
waist high golden brown wild oats
I stop and soak in all that is
heat waves float in all directions

do I lay down or stand
I lay down... crunching the oats as I go down
the pistol in hand
checked and re-checked the cylinder
6 rounds--that better do-it

I've killed before
but myself?  maybe bits and pieces over the years
clear my throat
nestle my body against the hard hot ground

heart?  might miss
head?  to loud
in mouth out back of head?  too gross

maybe not today
but again
heart
I draw the hammer back
clear my throat
see ya...


4-9-91
THE LOVERS

nature forced their flight
flip-flopping--down and up

they were playing lovers tag,
I, a block away, could not see them
as they flip-flopped
towards the ground

a beautiful in-flight entanglement
once, twice, three times
they touched and parted

I encroached, moving ever so close
driving my car down the road
passing under and through morning shadows

suddenly, my eye caught their flight,
closer, closer unable to slow

the nature of their love public, for all to see,
flip-flopping flip-flopping

the yellow and white butterflies of spring
never again to fly, to love... imagine...

my heart is heavy for the lovers
no matter that I slowed, the car, man made,
against yellow and white lovers...

the ending of flight




4-91

LAKOTA LAMENT


written word,
spoken word,

broken word,
broken land,

broken man,
broken heart,

wounded knee,
wounded spirit,

wound no-more,
O' Great Spirit I cry...



5-91

FUTILE GARDENING


I have to water the lawn.
Why?

So it will grow and then I can mow it down.
Why?

So I can water it and then cut it.
Why?

So I can water it then cut it.
Why?





5-91


THE GARDEN HOSE

my minds tired
not my body
I walk
I drive
to think
can't... my minds to tired

broke
fix
can
can't... my minds to tired

the garden hose is on the lawn
where's the garden hose
right there on the lawn
I need the hose
IT'S RIGHT THERE
I see it
pick it up
can't... my minds to tired

you can
I can
we can
I can't... my minds to tired

when
when you're ready
when is that
you'll know
how
you'll know
can't... my minds to tired


5-91
 FLYAWAY


the morning air heavy with breath,
ice on the dark sides of roof tops,

no fog, clear skies, leafs are still,
paper boys quicken,

turtle dove on a wire,
preening, gleaming, smiling,

the sun warms the wings,
preflight, eyes sparkle, tail feathers twitch,

a beautiful day of abandonment,
falling, falling, upward shooting,

off the wire into the crisp air,
slipping, darting, smiling,

nest, home, mate, love,
everything, everyone, the same,

soar... full force, breathe, return,
safely landing, preening, gleaming,
smiling...



3-92


SLUMBER


My eyes seek to dwell in the darkness,
I rub my orbs, squint, blink, breathe.

My chest heavy... breathe deep,
tingle, stretch, yawn.

Body parts warm and cold,
I hug myself.

My head longing for a pillow soft or hard,
lay down, spread out, some fetal some not.

Cool cotton covers under my chin
breathe-in-breathe-out.

My heartbeat sounds in my eardrum
as my ear crushes into the pillow.

Its quiet now, I'm quiet now.
Darkness is seeping in.

Invited invasion complete
deep sleep.

Breathe heavy...
smile.





4-92


OLD WOOD

Sitting here, beneath the trees in the park,
caressing the park bench,

I gaze upward at the man made city-forest,
I wonder old wood, where do you come from?

Where is your home?
The weathered bench cannot say.

The years have been good,
the visitors have not.

Margie luvs Frank.
"79" I was here.

The scars have been named one by one.
A park bench in a dirty city.

Dirty air,
hot-cold.

A long way from the cool Humboldt forest,
it grew in.

A park bench, did God really
spend 700 years of growth
to end up scarred, tattered, gray and away from home.

What if Einstein had been forced to be a janitor, Socrates a slave,
Lincoln only a trapper.

300 feet of tree.  700 years of growth.
Cut, chopped, cut chopped.

Sat upon without respect or dignity.

The city forest knows not this pain,
only silent witness for a fallen brother.



5-92
PAIN-FULL


talkin' about pain here,
let's try pain spoken here,

when pain feels better than reality,
is that painful reality,

I went  to the pain store to buy some pain,
the pain man said I didn't have to pay for it,

because pain was free,
I just had to ask,

"free to have or use or borrow or what?"
"pain just is."

pain just is,
think about it,

pain just is,
but so is pleasure,

if pain is pleasure,
is that painfully pleasing,

I didn't pay for the pain... just like the man said,
pain just is...







5-92

 THE CRUMMY BIRD



sleek black feathers
beautiful eyes of
yellow and black glisten

peck
peck
pecking

at my crumbs
lunch crumbs
mine yours
theirs and ours

he comes and goes
sometimes lucky
sometimes not so

he doesn't ask
for the crumbs

he flies, chirps, flexes his wings
he pays for his meal
with song and dance

now he's full
so long beautiful black bird

tomorrow
lunch is on me...






7-92


BREAKFAST DANCE

dewy grass lays for miles
she sets her wings
silently falls
dips and plants her talons in the grass

she struts, cranks her neck,
fluffs her tail feathers,
its breakfast time...

glisenting grass can't hide her meal
slowly making its rounds
in a blink she moves to the table,
its self serve and all you can eat...

she grasps her morsel ever so gently
yet deadly

she does her breakfast dance
around the retracting worm

first this way, no, wait,
back the other way
back and forth
round and round

slippp... slippp
out it comes

a cordon bleau master could never
prepare a more satisfying meal
dangling a little
on each side of her beak

the sun blasts through
home home... going home...


7-92



UNTITLED



THE GUN SHOTS OF THE NIGHT
ARE THE REALITIES OF THE NIGHT

THE MOTHERS CRIES THE FATHERS SCREAMS

THE SIRENS ARE THE REALITY OF THE NIGHT

THE YOUTH THAT STANDS BY THE CURB AT NIGHT

LIES ON HIS BACK IN SATIN

THE SIRENS ANNOUNCE ANOTHER NEED FOR SATIN

SHOT  BANG  DEAD

THE GANGS THE YOUTH THE DEATH

THE ONES THAT LIVE SAY, SHIT HAPPENS

THE ONES THAT DIE ARE SILENT

THE ONES THAT LOVE SCREAM WHEN THEY HEAR SIRENS

THE ONES THAT LOVE CRY OUT WHEN THEY HEAR
GUNSHOTS

FOR THE REALITIES OF THE NIGHT ARE GUNSHOTS
AND
SIRENS...



9-92

Chain Gang


A chain, they say
is only as strong as
it’’s weakest link

A heart is the
weakest link
in the chain of love…





9-92


 Dr. P

He’s a man not short in stature

He’s a man long on wisdom and compassion

He’s a man who is quick with a gentle touch and smile

He’s a man whose physical strength is apparent though never used in anger

He’s a man who has seen ten thousand tears

He’s a man who has heard ten thousand nightmares

He’s a man who has visualized others dreams and nightmares

He’s a man and I feel fortunate to have crossed paths with



2-93

 Hey bro…


Do you have one?

I didn’t know
for twenty odd years
I had one

Then I found
three of them

Do you have one?


2-93


GOD'S GOT THE BEST NOW
8-27-93
JD Bledsoe


God hasn't won a hand of 42
since Granddaddy was called home.
Yeah... he got some relief when Jack and Opal showed up.

But God's got the best 42 partner now.

When those heavenly peach orchards are ready for market
God's got the best trucker to get them there.

No log books... No CHP's
just a beautiful road of gold to drive on.

When God wants to go camping
he's got the best guide now.

When God wants a plate of biscuits, gravy, tomatoes and cantaloupe... he's got the best man for that too...
And wash it down with a great cup of coffee.

When God gets a hankering for a catfish dinner... need I say more...

I just hope God don't bid nello...
Cause he's got the best now...




8-27-93


SOMEBODY ELSE'S SWEATER

you can wear your own sweater
for years and years...

it's just a sweater...

but when you put on someone else's sweater
things change...

suddenly you feel warmer,
safer...

the material feels
softer...

it takes you back to your
baby blanket...

you pull at the collar,
you hug yourself, smile and remember...

the sweet smell of after shave or cologne,
you put a name on it...

after all it's somebody else's sweater...




11-93


 SPIDER MCGEE

I spy a spider,
between my TV and me,

hanging in mid-air,
on a fine wispy wire,

not any bigger than a match head,
new at this web thing,

Spider McGee,
I name thee,

back and forth in the breeze,
you sway and enjoy,

between my TV and me,
lives Spider McGee,

I wonder Spider McGee,
what thee would see,

if you were me,
and watching TV...




2-94


 WING IT

what rules her wing

to tip left
to tip right

swoop, lift
lift up

tip left
tip right

flutter, land
safely down

tip left
tip right

launch from ledge
dipping

wing tips left
tips right

warm air
pushes her up

what rules her wings to
tip left
tip right...



9-94


Bee

Does the Bee know
that he is just using the flower

The embrace of infidelity
pollinates black emotions

Which one recognizes
the abuse of friendship

Do they use each other
and neither one cares

Such muddied lines
are those of infidelity

Doe the flower care
if the Bee comes back

Or hurt when the Bee
finds a different flower
more useful for its
own purposes

Such muddied lines

The Bee goes
the flower stays

Such muddied lines…





9-94
THE SWIM

I speak to you in spirit form
from the light,

My family has swam for thousands of years here,
in the water,

The water clear-cool,
the light cutting through,

We skimmed and cut and jumped,
all the while the light bouncing,

We ate, lived, loved, bred,
here in the water,

Swift water tumbling over rocks,
the fog of death came,

We were just living,
then we were not,

Pristine-majestic-wondrous,
names of our home,

For miles and miles,
the fog came and went,

We are all dead,
more will come,

But, they won't be us,
they won't be from here,

They won't know,
about us,

We ate, lived, loved and died
in the Sacramento River...



12-94

 UNTITLED


never hesitate
there might not be a second touch
of your lovers lips upon yours

never hesitate
for that second touch may never come
the brush of a cheek
the kiss on a brow

never hesitate
the touch may be lost forever
the glow from the heart of passion
will diminish

never hesitate
to steal that last touch
wet tender lips pressing hungrily
knowing of the last time
arms tighten

never hesitate
the shoulda woulda couldas seep in
second guessing empty dreams empty arms
vacant not empty hearts

never hesitate
the, "I love yous...", are only heard by you
no more can, "I love you..." bring a smile
no more quickened heart beats but your own




3-95

IN A HAWKS EYE

you see'em out of the city,
back roads, sloughs, foothills...

today he sits atop a sixty-foot light pole,
looking down at us driving by,
scrambling to work...

he cock’s his head
he glides to work,
he glides home...

the hawks' eye can see straight ahead
and straight down at the same time...

he can see what’s ahead
and what he's passing over at the same time...

his wings glide--dip
and hold upon the wind...

wouldn't it be nice to glide above this mess
we've created and see what’s ahead,

rather than what we're passin'...





6-95

WHAT TO WRITE IN THE PERFECT SUICIDE NOTE:

GOOD-BYE, FUCK IT, I AM ALONE!
WHO KNOWS OR WOULD CARE FOR A GOOD-BYE?




4-96


MR. BUZZARD

hey mr. buzzard
circling circling above me

what delicacies do you see?
surely not me!

perhaps a juicy road kill
or rabbit in the bush

possibly not a thing
just riding the wind

my carrion brother
wings set just

circling circling...





6-96


THE MAD ROOM

I sit here in my mad room
I built this room with my own
madness

Over there in the corner I can see it
you can't
is a pile of hurt I've collected over
the years

In the other corner is a shelf of
regrets

Through the window pain is a floating
cloud of dreams I'm too afraid to
achieve

The only thing I've ever constructed
is this mad room
I've done good

Not much light or tears can enter here
not in my mad room

The nails that hold this room together
are made from senseless insecurities

The structure itself the boards
are made from petrified hope

Yep my mad room designed and
constructed by me

My mad room is all mine
you can't come in
It won't let you...



7-96

 HERE LIES...
here lies jack rabbit,
dead...

a broken bag of bones,

for years his family
ran the fields,

the city council voted on
putting in asphalt,

how much did his vote count,

i hardly think they bothered to ask,

imagine,
You’re jogging in a field, your father jogged there,
his fathers father did likewise,

You’re jogging through the field,
out of no-where...

a 2000lb rabbit crashes right over you...

you old bag of bones...




8-96



Questions

Did you know I was lonely

Did I ever tell you

Did you ever ask

Did you hear my screams

Have I eaten my life away searching

The filler to block the void of loneliness

Remember the room full of people

Did you ever noticed I was full of tears

Did you do anything

Could you do anything

Could I?





10-96

WEEDS ALONG THE HIGHWAY



din-gee din-gee greens
din-gee yellow
weeds along the highway

pushing and forcing
through the aged blacktop
solitary yet grouped

drought resistant
dried and brittle
old blossoms dangle

witness to traffic
wind blown and dusty
parched under the red light
weeds along the highway





10-15-96


 THINGS TO REMEMBER

TURTLE DOVES SITTING ON A WIRE IN THE MORNING SUN
MY LOVERS SMILE
LITE RAIN ON MY FACE
WALKS ON THE BEACH -- ANY BEACH
MY FIRST KISS
WARM FLANNEL SHEETS
SKINNY DIPPIN'
CATCHIN' CATFISH
BARB & ERN
DEATH -- ANY
SWEAT
HOT SWEET CORNBREAD
LONG DRIVES IN THE OPEN COUNTRY
DOING SOMETHING WELL
MY FATHERS CALLUSED HANDS
A FRESHLY PLOWED FIELD
STRENGTH
COOL EVENING BREEZES IN THE SUMMER
SNOWFALL
QUIET
WRITING
BREATHING
MORE LATER....



10-30-96

LOVERS AND FRIENDS


the hair light airy silken
her touch the same
her skin head to toe
silken easy to touch
tall long legged
passionate
beautiful loving
nurturing caring
sensitive smart
I'm in awe
that she has invited
me into her space
it excites me to know
she is my lover and friend
how fortunate I am
to have two lovers and two best friends
equal in love
why me?
nature created two wonderful humans
for me to be connected too.
all fears ease
when I hear their voices
see their faces
feel their touch
taste them
breathe in their essence
hold them
make love to them
alone or together
I am in "love" their love
swimming in their love...



10-30-96
 FREE WRITE POEM


love songs hurt more
when your in & out of love
to those who I let down
I love you always

some see some don't
some know some don't
to those who think they know & see
fuck you

if you haven't lived here
you don't know
I still don't know
I still haven't' found what I'm lookin' for

to those who live there
my respect and love to you
to those who don't
fuck you... very hard








10-31-96


UNTITLED

WHAT IS IT THAT MAKES US SEEK
OTHERS

SOMETHING NEEDED YET NOT MISSING
SOMETHING WANTED YET NOT NEEDED

EMPTY YET NOT
NOW WHAT...










10-31-96

EAT SHIT TO YOU


THE PAST ENVELOPES ME

THE FUTURE SEEMS AN OMINOUS
BLACK HOLE

THE PRESENT
DIM DARK

HOPE IS A 4 LETTER WORD
HOPE FOR WHAT...

WHAT DREAM DO I HOPE FOR

WHAT CAN I ATTAIN

WHAT DO I WANT
THERE IN LIES THE RUB

PEACE AND QUIET BETWEEN MY EARS

THE BLACK CLOUD RIPPED FROM
MY MIND AND HEART

WHAT DRUG
WHAT ACTIVITY
WHAT DO OTHERS HAVE OR DO
THAT MAKE THEM SEEM SO...

POSITIVE... OPTIMISTIC... NORMAL...

WHAT MASK DO THEY WEAR
DO THEY DO IT ON PURPOSE

AM I NORMAL AND THEY NOT?

SHOULDN'T I BE HAPPY... WHATEVER THAT IS...



11-1-96
 THE BEST



THE BEST THEY EVER HAD
BASED ON WHAT...

AM I THE BEST LISTENER... HUH WHADDYA SAY

DO I HAVE THE BEST TOUCH... OUCH

THE BEST HUMOR...  UP YOURS

THE BEST LOVEMAKING... OH REALLY

SEX IS OVERRATED

1 HOUR WITHOUT DEPRESSION
IS BETTER THAN ANY SEX YOU COULD EVEN IMAGINE

MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE SO MUCH GREAT SEX
I WOULDN'T BE DEPRESSED

NAH... TO EASY... TOO HARD...



11-1-96

TRY AGAIN

THE LEAVES ARE CHANGING AGAIN
I REMAIN THE SAME... STILL

COLD AIR MOVING THE DEAD LEAVES TO AND FRO
COLD DEAD SELF HATRED MOVING INSIDE

THE TREES WILL MAKE A COMEBACK NEXT SPRING
A COMEBACK MEANS THEY HAD IT ONCE

I DON'T REMEMBER EVER HAVING IT
SO HOW WILL I KNOW IF I MAKE A COMEBACK

COMEBACK FROM
COMEBACK TO

WHY NOT JUST GO
AND TRY AGAIN SOME OTHER SEASON...









11-1-96
CHUNKY


two crows fighting over a chunk of road kill
isn't that what we all do
whether we as single crows or multiples
fight over the same chunk

picture your own chunk
job, car, house,
life
don't we all fight for our own chunk of life

my chunk might be mental quiet
a fantasy at this dark point
but I fight internally for my chunk
some do some don't so what

would a bullet or a poison
deliver my chunk
that is my fight
bullet--poison or just keep on and wait for my chunk...




11-1-96


POINTERS

AND YOUR POINT IS?
CHEER UP!

FOR WHAT... WHAT WILL THAT GET ME?
MAKES IT BETTER TO BE AROUND YOU!

IF I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ME...
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOU?

YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT OTHERS?
WHY?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHY?
WHY SHOULD I CARE ABOUT OTHERS?

THEY CARE ABOUT YOU!!!
AND YOUR POINT IS...???








11-1-96


ALONE

A  ALWAYS

L   LONELY

O  OVER AND OVER

N    NEVER

E  ENOUGH






4-97


Twisted


Deeper into the twisted night of my mind
I wander from side to side top to bottom

I force my suffering back into the dark
the light shines only on a mask

The face in the crowd is not my own
I’m afraid to look upon my twisted face







9-15-97 3:42 am



THE THINGS HE SAID...


"Give me a hug... men don't hug enough..."

"Keep your head down and ass up and get the work done..."

"That was the easiest $20.00 you ever made..."

"What is wrong with you?  Haven't I always treated you like gold?!?"

"Don't touch him... he's my baby brother... if you do... you will answer to me!"

"Ya gotta be half mountain goat when you're chasing a wounded deer..."

Tears and good-byes
I can only hope
that in the future
he grows old
with his head high
and know
that I loved him...







6-98


NEVER...

Never, until now, did I reflect upon our relationship.
Never, did I feel more at a loss for words than I do now.

Never, was I able to say, I love you.
Never, until now, was I able to hear you say, "I love you..."

I listen now, to the memories.  I listen for the harsh words you spoke to me.  Never did you speak them.

I listen for any word, you may have spoken in anger.
Never did I hear them.

Yet, I have spoke to you in anger... I have spoke to you harshly.
In the ignorance of my wisdom, I pushed you away.

For some reason, you would always draw me near again.

Maybe, just maybe, you had been down the road I was headed and wanted to show me the way.

You loved me as a brother... moreover, as a father.
Indeed, we both had a father.  He too, in my memory never treated unjust.  I simply could not hear him until now...

I now feel the warmth of your arms... never before.

I looked up to you... when it served my needs...
You never looked away.






6-98

THE ONE LEGGED SEA GULL


My lunch companion today is a one legged Sea Gull

The cooing of a Dove serenades as I sit
sharing my scraps of lunch.

A Blue Jay bounces and hopping chasing
pieces of french fries I toss his way.

A cool gentle southwest breeze cools
my lunch room.

People walk and jog by, lunch buddies
drove by.

A sip of soda, the wind now moves
the branches of the shady trees, casting
changing shadows all around.

My lunch buddies are squawking at
each other over scraps that each want.

The blue jay takes flight with two french
fries in beak.

My one legged lunch buddy remains,
squawking and slurping up scraps...





4-1999


THE DOVE


how alone must one be to commune
with a lonesome dove cooing in a tree top...

so sad and pathetic is it to find
comfort in solitude...

people speak and the longing for silence
is breathtaking...

a dead end road the song states, is
just a place to turnaround... but  what if you
are the dead end...

dream and screams are separated by two letters
but they blend and meld in daylight and
darkness of the soul...

just another walking wounded in the sea
of unknowing, centered, socialized and
actualized populous that clutter this
ball of water and earth...

ahhhhh to be cooing with my
lonesome dove...








4-99

Once

I flew once.
I got it right once.
I soared to the edge of my soul.
I flew once.

I flew once.
I was at the point where dreams become life.
I had it right.
I flew once.

I flew once.
I was lifted to the summit of my spirit.
I had it in my arms.
I flew once.

I flew once.
I flew on the wind of confidence and ability.
I rose to the specter of the universe.
I flew once.

I flew once.
Wings now damaged by unseen forces.
I dream of my soulful flight.
I flew once.











7-1-00

DREAMIN' OF DADDY



What were his dreams?
He was 80 years old when he died
Worked from the time he was 12
Paycheck after paycheck
Struggle crisis children

What were his dreams?
Did he have time to dream?
Did he want to sail the oceans?
Climb the highest peak?
Write the great novel?

What were his dreams?
His face leathery
His hands callused and bent
His mind tired
He was 80
Horseless buggies to the space shuttle

What were his dreams?
Dear father I never asked
You never said
I will never know
My god what were your dreams...





7-31-00


Like

Like a writer
without a word,

Like a winged beauty
without a wind,

Like a drifter
without a road,

Like a lover
without a love,







Started 2-19-05

Ode to the Caballos…

The shadows on the Caballos signal another sunrise.  Quail pecking at the ground.  Doves the size of fat city pigeons doing their acrobatic flights from perch to perch.  Cattle moving on the open range.  A wondrous day in the high desert is again unfolding as it has for ions.

The would be prospectors scratching in the sand finding a feather weight of color in their gold pan buoys their spirits to keep on with shovel and pick.  Rouge winds swirl and dance through the arroyos bringing dust and dried goat head stickers.

The colors of a living desert are to numerous to count or name, yellows, purples, greens, browns, black, each with a thousand sub-variations of primary colors.  Violets in the shade and on the prickly pear cactus.  Skinny, hard bodied jack rabbits munching on some tender shoot of green.  Puffy cotton tail rabbits bouncing their butts over the desert floor, hoping to make it another day outside of the voracious food chain.  Deer sign of the four legged specter.  Sneaky is life in the night.

Old people, desert rats themselves move gingerly on ancient twigs of bone in the heat, their eyes wince in the bright sun.

Flies of all sizes appear from no where, sitting, tasting, moving away and then right back the same spot as if aided by magnetism.  Time and again they land and leave.

Beep beep step aside for the fleet footed roadrunner, the size of a hen pheasent.

Tumble weeds and dust.

Breath the high thin clear air, listen as purring flights of sand hill cranes pass aloft.  Rumors and whispers of Bald Eagles nesting in the hills.  That shadow figure behind the century plant, friend, family or foe.

One wonders how a single clump of grass can survive in the desert, yet, in the new moon of the morrow it will be clinging to it’s mother, the desert.





9-20-07



Miscellanea
The following was published in the Oklahoma Edge Magazine
April / May 2009 issue

Walk a mile with this grass roots American grandfather. Let him take you and his grandson from his porch to Washington D.C., to the jungles of Viet Nam.


It’s a Country Matter
by Dave & Mark Turpin

He’d worked in the field all day, choppin’ and hoein’, pullin’ and sweatin’.
Sun was hanging low–took him 30 minutes to walk to the porch.
He sipped sweet tea and wiped his brow.

“Grand Daddy why do you work so hard?”
“It’s a country matter, Grandson.”

He sat down next to him. The music started, and the man stood up.
“Stand up, Son.” He was drinkin’ soda-pop and munchin’ popcorn.
He stood up, not knowing why: Taylor sang the Anthem.

“Grand Daddy, why do you stand up?”
“It’s a country matter, Grandson.”

He leaned hard against the tall, black, name-covered wall.
He found the name for the hundredth time.
He remembered the firefight–
the tears, unstoppable, as they were countless times before.

“Grand Daddy, why do you cry?”
“It’s a country matter, Grandson.”

“It’s a country matter, workin’ hard and lovin’ God every day;
It’s a country matter, fightin’ and dyin’ and doin’ right every day;
It’s a country matter, livin’ and lovin’right every day.

“It’s a country matter, Grandson.”




2009


Poem

One tank of gas
Blindfold or cigarette
Nope just a tank of gas
The old & comfortable is gone
Let me leave with the old & comfortable
A tank of gas won’t get me far
But to go, ahhh, to go
Let me chase the old
Not much dignity in the new & latest trap











2011




CREDO OF THE WOLF

RESPECT THE ELDERS
TEACH THE YOUNG
COOPERATE WITH THE PACK
PLAY WHEN YOU CAN
HUNT WHEN YOU MUST
REST IN BETWEEN
SHARE YOUR AFFECTIONS
VOICE YOUR FEELINGS
LEAVE YOUR MARK





Timeless


Step to it

There’s a smile in her eyes,
An undeniable light from her spirit,
step to it.

A lightness abounds within and with-out,
A lightness of sense, touch, and toughness,
step to it.

You can try and resist,
Her laughter, succulent smiling spirit,
step to it.

The openness, free flowing love,
gentle confusion of a fawn finding it’s reflection,
step to it.

What is known is unknown,
Want to know the unknown,
step to it.



7-7-2013



When...

I raged, unfocused, confused,
desperate, lonesome,
restricted by want,
blinded to myself.
When I was that old.

I worked, worried, challenged nothing,
took it in, worked, worried, drank,
worked harder, foolishly went about it,
constricted my dreams.
When I was that old.

I blew apart, mind traveled, body started decaying,
slept, never found all the pieces, slept, worried,
died in segments, slept, body at rest without excuse,
slept, life changed for others, slept through it.
When I was that old.

I changed realities, location followed, sunrises important,
sunsets critical, priorities fluid, worried less, worked less,
bombarded senses, opened eyes, closed them, catch, release,
untouched again, dying within, alone encore.
When I was that old.

I regard your heart, assuaged broken parts unsuccessful,
depths of struggle too black to explain, silent corroboration reckless
uncaring, unforetold outcomes, apathetic communion secession, solitarily
singularly stagged.
When I was that old.

I revolt against mortality, resist morality, convention fries under the pressure,
haunted abode no longer, unfettered enchantment unto light, myopic, scrutable machinations,
amenable breath giving-taking sunrises-sunsets, interminably appended absorbed by our
luminosity.
Now I’m this old.


7-16-2013




Night

The switchblade night
quick, sharp & to the point
sitting, waiting, grinding out the seconds
into moments of breathless death

A thrust into life bleeding tears
joy, hate, fear, love.
Hope hanging on the click of the blade.

The night folding away, extending
and folding with unrepentant edges,
slice & dice, pick & choose with
a click of the button

Chrome heat without a reflection
of the night with a temporary soul
carves through the long
dead night–

Picture this--
By Dave Turpin

      Russ Connor placed the last flagstone in the walkway project at four pm. The homeowner was thrilled with the outcome of Russ's hard work. Several neighbors recommended him and the homeowners' own sister-in-law praised the work of the consummate handyman. Russ was on a different path to success. Choosing small in and out type handyman jobs rather than out of control massive contracted projects.

     For Russ, changing a hard to reach light bulb for a senior citizen, replacing a screen on a window for a single mother, installing a coat rack in a hallway for a blind guy was more rewarding than building a 5 story parking garage like his father, the big contractor. Russ had more control over his time, and energy. If he wanted to take the week off or a few days and go surfing, or fishing, or riding his cherry'd out Triumph up the coast for pizza, he could do it guilt and obligation free.

      “Thanks again Russ, you did a fine job!” Mrs. Pickler said.

      “Thank you Mrs. Pickler. Mind if I get a few pictures for my scrapbook?” He asked politely, knowing the answer in advance.

      “Of course not.” She replied handing him an envelope with four hundred dollars cash. Payment for a three day job – done well.

      He retrieved the digital camera from his 56' Ford work truck. Russ took ten pictures of the repaired flagstone walkway, including one of a smiling Mrs. Pickler flashing a little ankle. She waved to him until he idled his work truck out of sight.

      A week later after a do-nothing, relaxing day on the river bank. Drowning some worms, and bringing home a limit of trout for dinner, Russ decided to catch up on some lingering paperwork. Mainly thank you notes to his last 15 customers. Plus he decided upload the 10 pictures from the Pickler project to his online scrapbook.

      Russ didn't take many pictures with his ten year old digital camera, just the projects that touched him someway. In fact, this was the first time he'd used the camera in months. Mostly the scarred camera stayed in the clove compartment of the truck.

      Although more than a novice with electronics, he chose to 'un-plug' on most days. His cell phone, only for business, the same for emails, and what little social media he dabbled in, business only. Families and friends were real, living – breathing things he connected with in person.

      After connecting the thin black USB cable from the camera to his laptop, he slid open the on switch-lens cover, and the camera established a connection with the computer. The 'import picture from selected device' menu popped onto the screen and waited for his finger on the mouse to select 'import pictures'. Russ clicked on the import all images option, and turned his attention to the hummingbird feeder a few feet away outside his home office window. “Need to give the little guys a refill today.” He spoke to himself out loud.

He glanced back at his old friend, and the camera winked a tiny red light at him indicating the images were transferred. A deft finger closed the lens cover switch and he turned to the laptops screen.

Russ's face contorted when he read; '30 images successfully imported'.

      “Thirty?” He tilted his head looking at the screen. “The camera was empty when I took the flagstone pics.” Curiously looking at the camera as if to ask, 'were you out taking pictures by yourself?'

Turning back to the laptop screen, he clicked 'open' on the first flagstone project picture, opening another drop down screen with all 30 pictures numbered and dated. He roamed over the small images, walkway, Mrs. Pickler – the rest familiar but totally unrecognized images.

      Quickly he clicked on the first project image. “Okay,” then the next image, “fine.” And so on until he examined the first ten. Clicking the little 'next' arrow the first unknown image came into view. “What the hell is this?” Russ studied the image. Hazy, slightly out of focus, not to mention an extremely odd angle the picture was taken at. He tilted his head back and forth struggling to make sense of the picture.

      Without taking his eyes off the screen, his hand found the mouse and clicked the 'next' arrow button. “A wedding? I haven't been to a wedding in... two years. What the hell is going on here!” He ventured forth.

The third image, the bride and groom. “Beth and Tom's wedding?” His chest expanded, he took in a deep long breath, and leaned back in his leather office chair. Eyes locked onto the image of his friends wedding. A wedding that held hope, and the promise of bright futures for a loving couple. A wedding that he did not take pictures of. A wedding he did not have his trusty beat up old digital camera with him.

      The next gauzy image zoomed in on Tom, the groom, talking with a woman. Dark hair, low cut dress, and smiling. Tom, obviously enthralled with their conversation. The next image was again of Tom and the woman, but in the background, unnoticed – Beth. Her expression, clear. The following image showed Tom had moved closer to the dark haired woman. Beth turned to the side, her eyes locked on the odd couple at her wedding.

      To Russ, the pictures so far, showed that someone took candid pictures of Tom cozying up to this woman on his own wedding day. He continued – clicking on the 'next' arrow button.

The next several images followed Tom around the wedding venue. At the bar. Checking his texts. Walking to the men's room. The kitchen. The large pantry. A picture showed, from Tom's vantage point of him opening the pantry door looking straight into the eyes of the dark haired woman who waited with open arms, wearing nothing. The next image showed him embracing, then kissing the naked woman in the pantry.

Russ leaned back in his chair breathing deeply. “Whewww.” The word slipped out sideways with a whistle.

      He turned back to the hummingbird feeder. “How in the hell –?”

      After pulling himself together Russ returned to the surprises on the screen.

      The mysterious images became more focused, more detailed. A picture showed Beth's shiny new car, blue with sparkling chrome. Russ sighed. The next picture, Beth in the driver's seat, window down, her hair jostled gently by the wind. He clicked the 'next' arrow. How and where the camera was sitting when the picture was taken was more than Russ could imagine. The image clearly showed Tom working in the engine compartment of Beth's new car. Russ moved in closer to the screen, “Tom, what are you doing?” He studied Tom's hand. It was on the master brake cylinder. Wrench in hand. The next picture showed Tom holding a bottle of something, something liquid he was squirting into the brake fluid.

      The next picture was of Beth driving again, frowning.

      The next picture, Russ surmised, only seconds before the impact. She drove her car straight into the guard rail on a bridge. The images one after the other showed the car spinning out of control. Her face smashing into the steering wheel. The car bouncing off the punishing steel girder, then crashing into and through the opposing rail, coming to a rest with the front wheels dangling off the edge of the bridge.

Russ cringed, grimaced as he watched his one true friend live her last few minutes. A tear languished a beat before rolling down his cheek.

      He looked at the number of remaining pictures. Four left.

      The next image showed in sharp focus the coroner's findings; single vehicle crash followed by drowning in the river when victim was trapped in her car. Death ruled accidental.

      Third image from the end; Tom, eyes gleaming, holding the life insurance check.

      Second image from the end; Tom and the dark haired woman, naked – seated in a hot tub, overlooking Lake Tahoe.

      The last image. Beth shrouded by light. Smiling, but her eyes pleading with Russ.

*     *     *     *     *

      Seven months passed since Russ Connor raised so much hell with the highway patrol, the coroner, and the life insurance company to reopen the investigation into Beth's tragic death, they had no choice. The forensics team couldn't determine the fluid Tom introduced into the brake lines. They concluded only that a contaminant was introduced into a closed, new brake system causing terminal brake failure. The life insurance company put liens on Tom's new house, and bank accounts. The dark haired mistress dropped from sight, abandoning her killer lover. Finally satisfied with the evidence, the district attorney was bringing charges against Tom.

      Seven months. Russ continued his handyman work throughout the past months. Mainly he stayed with the easy 1 or 2 day jobs. In and out. Quick cash for the fight against law enforcement, and the life insurance agency. Russ sat back in his office chair, enjoyed a sip of sweet tea. He had put the finishing touches on a fire place mantel with the addition of natural rock surround earlier in the day. Ten more pictures for his scrapbook waited on his old beat-up digital camera laying on the desk. The thin black cable already hooked to his laptop, he clicked 'import images from selected device'. A tremble started in his knees – lightning shot to his hands; they shook... 42 images successfully imported.

The End

New Book Cover Shot

Book #3 of the Vivika Stryker Mystery Series. Available very soon. :)

Poem

Road Work


One tank of gas
Blindfold or cigarette

Nope, just a tank of gas
The old and comfortable is gone

Let me leave with the old and comfortable
A tank of gas won't get me far

But to go... ahh, to go

Let me chase the old
Not much dignity in the new

5:02 

   The rough edged faded tattoo‘s visible on both sides of his neck matched the artwork on his knuckles. His wet asphalt black hair combed straight back. Leathery skin from too much sun. Worn black leather jacket, cracked in the creases. Levi’s gracefully dancing on ostrich hide cowboy boots. A small dark canvas duffel bag hung from his left hand.
    His right hand jerked once, twice on the handle of the bank’s door. Locked. He pressed closer to the glass, peering inside, the clock on the wall behind the teller’s windows; 5:02. “Shit!”
    The business hours were clearly plastered on the glass door; 9 to 4:45 Monday to Friday.
    “Shit!!!” He let go a yell at the brass encased doors. His frustration didn’t go unnoticed. The stranger continued to look through the door, changing positions looking around inside the bank. He stepped back, and took a long look at the door.
    Don Sizemore, the small town barber was locking his shop doors across the street, he noticed.
    Darla Schumaker, closed her flower shop everyday at the same time Don the barber did. She noticed the foul-mouthed stranger too. Darla traded glances with Don, and they both stared across the street at the stranger.
    The locked doors of the bank left the stranger deflated. “Son of a bitch.” He spat as he moved away from the doors and down the stairs to the sidewalk. He took his pack of smokes out, flipped one up to his lips, then took a quick inventory, only four cigarettes left in the pack. He only had five bucks left to his name, the bank was his best and only hope to get flush for a long time to come. The pack of smokes cost him $5.49. He hesitated and put the cigarette back. It was going to be a long night.
    Don and Darla’s stare was broken by a skidding bicycle, it was Wade Lodger. A nosy twenty something Momma’s boy. A seasoned gossip monger. “What’s going on?” He asked Don and Darla.
    “That stranger over there. He tried to get into the bank.” Darla replied.
    “But the bank closed fifteen minutes ago.” Wade said. He cocked his head and watched the stranger.
    “Ever see him before?” Don asked Wade.
    Squinting, “No. Look how he’s dressed.”
    “He’s not from around here.” Darla capped the discussion.
    But he was.
    The stranger shook his head and walked down the sidewalk away from the bank. He stopped at a bus bench and flopped, dropped his bag, and stretched out his sore legs. He clacked the soles of his boots together, sending shock-waves through his tired feet. The bus ride was one thing, walking eighteen blocks in his boots was something different.
    “Should someone call Sal?” Wade asked.
    “You call him, Wade.” Darla shook her head.
    “I’m not calling Sal.” Wade protested.
    “I’m heading home. The guy ain’t gonna rob the bank tonight.” Don said. He walked away shaking his head.
    Darla checked her watch. “I have to come back down here in an hour, if he’s still hanging around I’ll call Sal.”
    The solitary man mentally re-traced his steps from the bus depot to the bank. Typical bullshit small town. He remembered crossing the street near the Sheriff’s sub-station. Only one car in a five car parking lot. Traffic was typical afternoon “go home” commuters. To busy pissing and moaning about work, and the drive home. Only a couple of other pedestrians on the way to the bank. He stood out, but chances were, the jacket would be the only thing that caught anyone’s eye. Just a scruffy guy walking away from the bus depot. His stomach growled. “Yeah no shit. I’m hungry, I get it.” Unzipping the duffel bag, he found a stale piece of sugar free root beer flavored gum someone left in the duffel bag before he “acquired” it. His jaw line didn’t need more exercise, but begrudgingly started chewing.
    “Can’t do a damn thing til the bank opens. Shit.” He was deep into his thoughts. “Next time I need a better plan.” He stopped chewing and smiled.
    He couldn’t sit on the bus bench all night, to exposed, some roving cop would catch on. Five bucks wouldn’t pay his way through the night at an all night diner, if there was one in the shit hole town. The stranger looked one way up the dusky gray street. Small shops, stop signs every block, a flashing yellow light four blocks away. He turned his gaze in the opposite direction. More of the same gray nothing, more chicken shit little shops, some vacant, a smattering of cars parked along the chipped failing curbs. He needed to stash himself, tuck away from small town eyes. A back alley doorway? Cardboard mattress behind a dumpster? Abandoned car? Overnight temps might drop into the mid-forties, he would prefer a cabin over the water near the Gulf or even a tent on the beach near Corpus. One last visit to a bank, and he could buy a piece of beach. He grabbed the duffle bag and trudged up the street toward the flashing yellow light.
    When Darla returned to her flower shop an hour later, the stranger was no where in sight. Sal was cruel, and she was thankful she didn’t need to call the deputy.
    The snoop on the bike, Wade, took to the streets after his Mom fixed him dinner; he still lived at home. Wade cruised down a few quiet streets, edging closer to the bank. A chill afoot with nightfall. He pedaled over to Darla’s flower shop, and dropped his bike at her front door.
    “He’s gone?” Wade asked.
    “He wasn’t out there when I got here.” Wiping her hands and looking out the front window toward the bus stop. “Don’t know where he went.”
    “Did you call Sal?”
    “Nope.” She moved back to her workbench, Wade in tow.
    “Big funeral?” Wade looked at the splay of flowers.
    “Tomorrow morning at Brown‘s. Last minute order.”
    “I hate funerals. They’re creepy.” He shuddered.
    “We’ll all have one.”
    “Not any time soon I hope.” Wade said.
    “You might if you run into that stranger. He looked up to no good.”
    “Looked like he spent time in prison.”
    “Never know.” Darla said.
    “Wonder where he went?” Wade went back to the front window, looking up and down the street. “That’s him!”
    The stranger came back down the street from the intersection where the flashing yellow light stood sentinel.
    “Where?” Darla sprinted to the window.
    “He’s right there.”
    They both watched the man. Head down, duffle bag swinging from his hand. The dark of the evening seemed to come all at once. The two spies made out his shape as he disappeared onto a small stretch of exposed concrete between two buildings. The micro sidewalk lead to the back of the two buildings. “Did you see that?” Wade urgently asked.
    “Yep. He’s behind the old Dickson place.” Darla said.
    “Better call Sal for sure now!” Wade uttered breathlessly.
    “No choice now.”
    The stranger shuffled on the walkway, straining to see in the dark between the buildings. One back porch light illuminated enough for him to take a glimpse of the area he was encroaching. To his right, behind a broken down chain link fence a large patch of gravel and debris, and on his left the building continued to the alley. Too damn dark to find a hidey hole for the night. Could be anything in the building, even a silent alarm. The gravel patch was exposed, foreboding, no attraction there.
    Darla called the Sheriff’s sub-station and left a message for Sal to come by her flower shop.
    “Wade will you stick around until Sal gets here, that stranger has me…”
    “Sure Darla. If he comes in here I’ll beat him with roses!” Wade tried to lighten the mood.
    “I don’t like drifters moving through town.” Darla said.
    “Neither does Sal.” Wade looked away.

*****

    Sal took his time, an hour and half before he showed up at the flower shop. Wade and Darla were impatient with him, but didn’t let it show.
    “What’s the big deal? People come in and out of town all time.” Sal groused. He gave the pair a hard look. A massive man, six five, two hundred and ninety pounds of mid-west corn fed attitude. Sal came from a long line of farmers and ranchers. He refused to wear the county issued cap, always wore short sleeve shirts with a one inch cuff. His pride and joy on his hip, a 1911 .45 auto that came from a grandfather who served in WWII. He didn’t take shit, but he handed it out freely. Reviled in the community. But his county had the lowest crime rate in the state, it also had the highest rate of moving violations handed out. A state record for the total number of seat belt violations in one weekend, 380. He ate speeders for breakfast, skateboarders for lunch, and drunk drivers for dinner. Drifters were open season.
    “He tried to force the doors of the bank open Sal!” Wade said.
    “Was it closed?” Sal replied.
    “It was a little after five, everyone knows it closes at 4:45!” Darla added.
    Sal turned and looked out the window toward the bank.
    “And he had a bag of burglar tools with him. I’ll bet he even had a gun in the bag!” Wade surmised.
    Sal inhaled deep, looked up and down the street. “Where did you see him go?”
    “He ducked between the Dickson place in that narrow space between the buildings.” Darla said.
    “You two should get on home.” Sal didn’t turn to give his demand.
    “We’re leaving right now, come on Wade I’ll give you a ride home.” Darla spat out a demand of her own.
    “Okay.” Wade wanted to wait in the shadows and watch.
    “Black leather jacket, blue jeans, and all tatted up.” Sal double checked.
    “Yep and the burglar bag!” Wade shot out.
    “You two go home and stay there.” Sal left the flower shop.
    Darla and Wade exchanged excited glances, and left the shop.
    The stranger wandered in the heavy darkness. His stride deliberate, not rushed. Several blocks from the bank he found a place to sit down in the dark. He figured it was close to 7:30, he splurged on one of his few remaining smokes. It worked, soothing his nerves, satisfying the nicotine monkey. He took a long drag, held it, and took his time exhaling.
    Headlights a block away grabbed his attention, a spotlight beam skittered across houses, and hedges, garages, and cars parked on the street.
    Night patrol in a small town. He went back his smoke. Fourteen more hours.
    Sal deftly worked his spotlight as he idled his patrol car up and down the streets closet to the bank, moving a street further away with each pass. With every dusty alley his tension ratcheted. A drifter in his town trying to get into “his” bank? He wasn’t having none of it. Nothing about Sal was standard issue. His patrol car, a Lincoln Navigator that he donated to the county sheriff’s department. He equipped it himself, rather provided the equipment and had someone do the installation - at no cost. His sidearm. He had to have his uniform altered to fit him. His attitude, and cruelty were all his. The scars on his knuckles, the aged scar on his cheek, all bought and paid for by him. He continued his prowl of the neighborhood, looking for the wannabe bank robber.
    The stranger finished his smoke, butted it out on a tree trunk, and moved on. Many blocks ahead of him the lights of the bus depot twinkled.
   
*****

    Sal yawned hard with a shudder. The sun was coming up and no sign of the stranger. Butt weary and hungry, he temporarily abandoned his search, and headed for breakfast. He loved the free breakfast the hash slinger provided at the Sunny Side Up diner. No charge. Sal loved the sound of that phrase. Sal deserved it. His pay was fine. But free was, well free. The fear and respect oozed from the citizens of the fine small town, but free food, free flowers, free coffee, free cell phone, free alterations, free dry cleaning, that was his real paycheck.
    Sal took his seat at his favorite permanently reserved table.
    “Mornin’ Sal.” Buzz hollered from the kitchen.
    Sal nodded his response.
    “Your usual Sal?” Penny the waitress asked.
    Sal nodded again.
    “His usual Buzz.” Penny squawked as she moved back behind the counter. 
    “Penny!” Sal’s voice boomed in the diner.
    The waitress spun on her heel, and walked to his side. “Yes?”
    “Any strangers been in?” Sal asked.
    “Nope. Just the regulars.”
    “What about someone in a black leather jacket?” He pressed.
    “No one Sal.” Her smile feigned.
    He nodded.
    Sal’s thoughts turned to places to look, maybe he missed a place where a drifter could lay low. The grain elevator south of town? The abandoned box cars on the never used rail spur? Out by the newly erected cell tower? He pictured the drifter in his mind’s eye. The guy left the bank, went up the street to the yellow caution light, came back, ducked in by the Dickson place, from there? Out the back end, into the alley or across the alley? No signs of a break-in on the old buildings. No visible boot tracks in the alley.
    Carter Abbott’s stomach came to life with a long grumbling sound followed by a gas bubble trying to escape, the stranger blinked awake. “Just a couple more hours, I’ll have the cash and we’ll eat.” He patted his pissed off gut. “I see a full rack of baby back ribs, a side order of steak fries and a pitcher of beer.”
    The stranger didn’t suffer the overnight temps. He found a bench inside the bus depot. A lonely janitor at work. The old gray haired man took pity on Carter, and invited him inside. They kept each other company for hours. The old man bought Carter a candy bar and cup of vending machine coffee. Carter made special note of the kindness. He had hid in plain sight.
    Sal looked down at his plate. His “usual” consisted of a fried pork steak, two fried eggs, fried potatoes, two pickle spears, plus an English muffin. And a never ending cup of black coffee. He despised talking while eating. Penny, the waitress learned to keep watchful eye on the brute; low on coffee, she was there with a refill, if he looked up or stopped chewing, her Sal radar alerted. Napkin? Salt shaker empty? Not enough butter on his English muffin? Grape jelly on the table?
    Penny hadn’t seen Sal so deep in thought since… she hesitated to even recall the memory. The townsfolk referred to it as the “incident”. Sal responded to a disturbance call. A trucker upset at poor service at the local mom and pop truck stop. The non-aggressor involved in the disturbance was bruised, bloodied, and battered. The aggressor was arrested, and charged. While in holding, the aggressor “fell” in the shower. According to the on-call doctor who examined the aggressor, he fell approximately 19 times. Slippery floor the night Sal was on duty. Charges were later dropped, but the trucker’s big rig was found 30 miles from town. The interior of the rig was covered in hair, blood, and bone. The man was never seen again.
    The bus depot in an instant became bustling. Two incoming buses, passengers showing up for trips. The freight office rolled their shutters up with a clang. Time for Carter Abbott to move on. He broke his five dollar bill, change for the vending machines. Another cup of shitty vending machine coffee, and a stale granola bar was his breakfast.
   
    7:15 am.
    Sal swabbed the grease, and runny egg yolk from his plate with the English muffin. Burped. Left the diner without making eye contact or a thank you. No reports of strangers, prowlers or anything during his overnight stint. Loud dog. Road kill deer. He pulled away from the diner with another pork and egg flavored burp.
   
    8:00 am.
    Carter, feeling comfortable in his dusty boots, set out for the bank. His stomach was quiet, but the hunger persisted. He admired the tall oaks as he made his way down the street. Huge trunks of the trees caught his eye, six feet wide, eighty foot tall. Carter allowed a smile. Less than an hour and the work at the bank would be over and done with. He could escape to a tent on the beach, or cabin by a lake, hell he would be able to buy a lake or an island, screw the tent. His smile broadened. He pictured driving in a new car, no, a deluxe pick-up truck. Oversized tires. Custom paint. Stereo. The whole package. He might need a truck for projects at his new home. Home? His own home? His own truck? He stopped to fire up a cigarette. He took a drag, the thought made him sneer, his own damn home, truck, maybe a dog. Hell, how about ten dogs with a kennel. Hire someone to train them? Nah. To much too soon. Carter started moving again. Puffing as he went. Maybe I could quit smoking? I’ll have the money to get the help. Suddenly the cigarette didn’t satisfy him. He tossed the butt into the aged gutter. He stepped off the curb without looking. A car skidded, and honked. The driver gave Carter a dirty look. Carter thought better of going off on the anonymous driver, and waved him on.
   
    8:45 am.
    Carter, amped on adrenaline, was ten foot off the ground when he came to the corner where the bank was. He looked to his left, he realized he completed a huge circle. The bank obscured by the brilliant fall sun. The yellow flashing light was due east.
    Below the glare of the morning sun, Sal watched Carter’s every breath and move. Engine idling quietly, waiting for it’s command.
    Sal matched Carter’s steps. Each step equaled a foot of tire movement. Carter turned to go up the steps to the banks door, Sal eased out the driver’s door.     
    Carter pressed his face against the door, 8:52. He tried the door for luck. The second tug of the door he heard something behind him. Sal hit him with a closed fist square in the back between the shoulder blades. Carter slammed against the door, and crumpled. Blood gushed from a gash over his eye from the impact of the flat immovable glass door. Carter tried to respond, but as he tried to stand, Sal let go a volley of lefts and rights to his head.
    Carter got out two words “what” and “why” before his brain hit the disconnect button.
    Darla, Wade, and Don watched the brutality from the sidewalk in front of their shops.
    The bank employees stood in stark horror as Sal put three or four heavy boots to Carter’s mid-section.
    Sal needed a break from his post breakfast workout. He snatched Carter’s duffle bag and walked to his patrol car to relax and log the would be bank robber’s tools into evidence.
    Carter lay on the threshold of the bank, bleeding. Too unconscious to moan.
    Sal, breathing hard flopped his big ass onto the tailgate of the mighty SUV. Smiled and waved to the small crowd across the street. He usually didn’t have an audience for his work, but this would be an exclamation mark for the taxpayers.
    Sal proudly unzipped the confiscated duffel bag. The contents didn’t surprise him. Rabbit fur lined leather gloves. Odd, but no counting for personal taste in a criminal mind. A pair of socks. Could be used for gloves or gags he supposed. A toothbrush. A travel size tube of toothpaste. A road map, with notes written in red ink. A big circle around Leavenworth, Kansas. “Par for the course”. A long red line followed the bus route to Sal’s little town, and it was his town dammit. Three books of matches. Other than five envelopes, the duffel was empty. No gun. No tools. No nothing.
   
    9:15 am.
    Sal took the envelopes out. All the same size. All postmarked from the small town he swore to protect. Emblazoned across each envelope a large rubber stamped phrase, “Opened & Inspected by Federal Prison Officer 1145. Approved for Inmate Delivery”. A lonely hearts scam or a partner’s notes Sal thought. One old school savings book he didn’t bother with. He took out the first letter.

    “Dear Mr. Abbott,
        On February 12th, your grandmother, Mrs. Grace, fell in her residence and has since been moved to Farley’s     Senior Care Home. Any future correspondence should be sent directly to her there.”

    Sal looked over his shoulder at the man he left bloodied on the bank’s doorstep. Slipped the letter back in it’s envelope, and pulled the next one out.

    “Dear Mr. Abbott,
        This is an update to my previous letter. I’m saddened to inform you that your grandmother, Mrs. Grace, has taken a turn for the worse. When she fell, she broke her hip. The doctor is battling an infection brought about by the fracture.”    

    Sal ignored the salutations at the bottom of the letter. He looked over his other shoulder, the witnesses were still standing outside their shops, with weasel Wade standing by. He started on the third letter.

    “Dear Mr. Abbott,
        Your grandmother, Mrs. Grace, has given me Power of Attorney until the time of your release. Currently she is struggling with the details of a Living Will and the notion of a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) to be placed on file. The bone infection is unfortunately  progressing. Mr. Abbott, considering your circumstances I hate to be the only one to keep you abreast of her condition, but, the doctor is not hopeful.”

    Sal continued to read about Mrs. Grace’s condition. The name finally started to break into to his fat addled mind.

    “Dear Mr. Abbott,
        It is with a heavy heart to inform you so impersonally, but your grandmother passed away yesterday morning. I am extremely sorry for such a tragic loss given your confines. The estate will be managed by my office. Her long term endowment care was well planned many years ago. She will be buried in your family plot next to your grandfather, parents, and your other relatives. As you know the family plot is located at Rosewood Cemetery.” 

    Sal’s hand began to shake. He handled the funeral escort detail for the woman. Mrs. Grace’s picture was on the front page of the small town newspaper. There was mention of her sole surviving family member, Carter Abbott, a grandson currently in federal prison for a white collar crime. With good time served is scheduled to be released in the fall of this year. Sal remembered the blabbering fool on the radio that today was the first day of fall. He trembled. He was sweating. His stomach turned sour, he felt sick, his jaw hurt like hell.

    “Dear Mr. Abbott,
        Per your instructions I have established an account in your name at the Citizen’s First State Bank. Your grandmother Grace’s estate has finished probate. Your inheritance includes the houses and properties your family amassed, including the rental units in Dallas. The cash amount on hand from various accounts and accounts receivables total $12,392,771.00.
        Mr. Abbott, I am very sorry for your loss and await further instructions if necessary. Good luck Carter.” 

    Sal slid off the tailgate clutching the last letter. His breath came sharp and hard earned. Sal’s steps were labored as he rounded the front of the SUV. He stared at the front of the bank. The bank employees were unsure of their safety, thus leaving Carter Abbott to fend for himself.
   
    9:30 am.
    Carter, now able to moan, stirred and sat up with his back to the glass door. Blood dripping from the gash over his eye, and bloody nose, he blinked down at the behemoth stepping up on the sidewalk.
    Sal felt an elephant dancing on his chest as he moved across the sidewalk to the first step leading to the bank. Only seven more steps- up.
    Carter wiped blood away and cringed as the back of his hand made contact with his swelling face.
    Sal made two more steps- up. His beefy hand crushed the letter he was holding. As he was dying, a torrent of memories hit him. He turned twelve that summer. His father wanted him to spend some time with the neighbors grand kid. A lanky city kid. Show him how country folk lived. Horse back riding. Take the old single shot .22 out, shoot some squirrels. Show him the rope swing at the swimming hole. Catch some fire flies. Catfishing. Teach the poor city kid how to drive a tractor... and old Mrs. Grace would be forever grateful.
    Sal cried out, “Carter!!!”
    “Sal?” 

The End

Poem 112

The switchblade night,
quick, sharp, to the point.

Sitting, waiting, grinding out the seconds
into moments of breathless death.

A thrust into life bleeding tears
joy hate, fear, love.
Hope hanging on the click of the blade

The night folding away, extending,
and folding with unrepentant edges, 
slice and dice, pick and choose with a click of the button

Chrome heat without a reflection
of night with a temporary soul
carves through the long dead night.


 

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