freehand in the black
still-life memories 
fire through my nerves
in strokes of white
clack
clack
clack
a conjured cadence

these expressions
are some of my own
seen with my own eyes,
some were read
gifted from timeless text
imagined on my part

but still felt
like braille under
the fingers of my mind
so that an image coalesces
divined by hand and fate
loose at first
tighter in the revelation

This weekend I was messing around with my son’s chalkboard again. A clean black void somehow reflected back some sunlight in a pretty way as I proceeded to draw. I scratched lines without any real intent, a true freehand, and I found myself creating a portrait. Who is it?

As soon as I went beyond the face, started etching the red curves of the neckline it hit me. That’s Ernest Hemingway. Perhaps it’s just the turtleneck that elicits the 1957 photo by Yousuf Karsh, or perhaps its because I’ve been reading his short stories that he came through.

My son pointed his little finger at it. “Dad.”

Well that made me reconsider. Hey, that does look like me, albeit an older handsome version. I am not saying I’m Hemingway. But I like how my admiration for him blended with my self-expression in this instance. Heck, if I make it to winter of my life having had some adventures and stories that are worth reading I will be happy.

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More from me:

I knew a girl in Mexico,
she didn't like to be inside
not even at night
was it odd to worry about her
out there on the church steps at dusk?
when I saw her
I'd close my book
holler through my open window
¿Qué tal?
and she would just wave
and the night would eat her shape

“Every good story starts with ‘I knew a girl in Mexico’, hermano.” Fulton dragged on his cigarette.

By the fire, Jaime hunched over his journal as more lines came to him. Fulton closed his eyes. “Was she pretty?”

Jaime’s pencil kept working on the humidity crinkled page. “Yes, yes she was bonita, very pretty.”

Fulton’s big teeth flashed. “You sure she wasn’t a bruja?”

Jaime stopped. He always let Fulton’s taunts get to him, especially when he was trying to write. “Of course I’m sure.” He put his pencil down and stared at Fulton whose eyes were still closed. “Brujas are ugly, scary looking.”

Fulton laughed and squinted at Jaime. “Around here Jamie, brujas are beautiful as a general rule. That’s how they getcha. 'Specially if they are hanging around old churches at night. That, or you had a thing for a nun.” He laughed some more.

“Ha-ha, payaso!” Jamie said unamused. “I can just tell stories, doesn’t mean it happened. Your small mind cannot see what I can see, what I can create in my head.”

“What? You a fortune teller now? You’re the — the— brujo!” Fulton said. He sat up with a jolt flicking his cigarette. He did not take kindly to being called small minded. Scowling, and with his eyes on Jamie’s journal he said, “I’ll take first watch tonight.”

Jaime stared at the lanky drunk in front of him. He’d been intimidated like this many times before in Yuriria, Mexico where he was born. A thief on the lam from the Augustinian Order he stole from, he hired Fulton to take him to Texas. He was still deciding what kind of luck it was for him to have done so.

Jaime smiled to himself and looked down at his boots.

“The hell you smiling about?”

Jaime gestured open palms before pointing directly at Fulton. “Señor, my poem it had you thinking of someone, no?”

“I was following along…”

“Was it someone in particular?”

“Well shit, I only heard it the once.” Fulton laid himself out resting his head on his rolled up jacket. The cicadas stopped their chirping. “I knew a girl in Mexico. Must’a been seven years ago. I was there for work. She was running a little place making tacos with her parents. She always wore a white dress. The whole time I knew her she didn’t get her dress dirty, not one time.” Fulton paused. “She worked hard though, Graciela, and she was definitely bonita.”

Jaime rolled his pencil in his fingers listening to Fulton. He waited between several crackles of the fire picturing this tumbleweed of a man savoring the tacos and the view of a fine Mexican woman before he finally asked, “What happened?”

Fulton took a deep breath. “What was that you said earlier?”

“I called you a payaso. She thought you a clown, señor?”

“No, God, not that. Your poem thing you were writing! ‘the night would eat her shape’.” Fulton said. “That’s basically what happened. I asked her out to dance one night at the edge of town. It was… well it was just delightful. You know I never knew a woman’s hands could feel like that, rough like mine but a different kind of rough. The kitchen kind.”

“Masa and a comal will do that.” Jaime said.

“Worth it for those tortillas.” They both laughed.

Fulton continued, “But that was the only time I got alone with her.” He sighed. “I was sitting on a fence post with her watching the rest of the party when her father came riding in, a burning torch in one hand and a pistol in the other.” He rolled over on his side to stare into the fire.

“He had blood on him. As he rode on closer I saw it wasn’t his blood. It was sprayed on, and well I knew things had gone south. He was mad as hell. Graciela slid off the post and stood in worry but I kicked off on the other side and ran. I ran as fast as I could into the rocky black night as bullets threw invisible dust up at me.”

“Dios mío! I still don’t understand?”

“My work. I was in a gang, Jaime. We were there to stealing horses and money. The boys were moving in on Graciela’s home that night, and I didn’t want anything to happen to her. I underestimated her father. Suddenly I was a gang of one and I ran until the night ate my shape.” He said this all without looking away from the fire.

Jaime was silent. He kicked his legs out making a crunching sound with the rocky soil. Then he whistled as if to say ‘damn.’

Fulton smiled. “What? Did you see what I created in my head?” He rolled back to look at the sky again, content.

Jaime’s eyes shifted about until he understood. He smirked and tipped his hat with his pencil. He looked into the fire and then to the embers that blended with the stars.

A special thanks to , for inspiring me constantly in our daily chats and specifically for a line he casually dropped (“I knew a girl in Mexico”) that I could not let go of and eventually became this campfire vignette.

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A short story:

A poem

my father is every road I've ever known
mostly deep black highways 
smooth with clean yellow lines
but also the weathered and broken ones

my mother is every destination along the way
every diner, every well deserved exit
every peaceful field along the roadside
but also the empty lots and flattened forests 

I became a driver of detours 
found a girl to get lost with,
we drove fast into the great wide open
trailblazing hot licks of flame behind us

I became a road for my son to follow
my wife's arms a place for him to sleep
our tender scene is sublime
even in the frame of doubt and mistakes

I feel comfort in the rearview mirror
my past and his future
like the sky meeting the sunbaked road
a mirage we call the blue highway

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More from me:

she was my friend 
then she was the girl that made me notice what a romper is
courtship followed
though fragile, we didn't ruin the friendship
it was a controlled demolition
a remodel for something deeper

the renovation was the fun kind of mess
kisses glittered the foundation like dust
love notes written on the support beams
hidden by drywall textured with 
impressions of hands intertwined
and a current harnessed from the first spark

we kept building toward marriage
ten years in, I can reach for her hips
find them in the dark,
practiced closeness became
an effortless muscle memory
for my most precious constant

the rhythm of our two breaths 
became one then two new heartbeats
bundled in innocence
and we are delicate again
blessed with new blueprints,
so we keep building

My dear wife, my only regret is that I didn't write you more poems sooner when we were living the best years of our lives together. Luckily, our best years are still ahead of us too. Everything with you is the best. I will always love you.

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I judge the men who drink 
and drink
to the point of drowning
their brains stupid

but everyday I soak
in digital noise
to the point of poisoning
my heart soulless

sometimes the smell of books
can't compete with
'add to cart'
or the allure of voyeristic worry

the hum of a computer doesn't
stop when it's shut off,
it lives in me,
at least the blackout drunks lie still

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Some of my other work:

formless and void
was the earth 

intentional and open
was the womb

prepared and willing
was the Teacher

whom by God's breath 
had life bestowed

the Spirit returned like a dove
in the river

and the dove staid 'til
the Son's last breath,
a benediction.

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It’s right outside my door. Like a spotlight bleeding through a cut in a stage curtain. It could be for me. I only meant to check that the door was bolted before bed but I stand in darkness that dresses me like a stagehand while my toes flirt with the faint gleam on the floor toward eminence.

I could step out and perform, though I don’t know what I’d do. After a moment I decide to sing or recite poems that matter, the ones that live on the licks of lightning and recharge me every time I revisit them. My hand hesitates on the door knob. Should I even be embarrassed? There is no one out there at this hour.

I open the door and my walk-in music plays right on que. A fanfare of rustling leaves, chirping toads, and the languid flap of the American flag. Together they all hum like the organ in “The Children of Rarn” so I sing the mythical lyrics:

And we are the seekers of space
We've seen our master's face
It's young and gold
And silvery old
We are the seekers of space
OM

It only takes a few steps into the street until find my real audience: the Ring™ cameras that awaken with my motion like rheumy Cycloptic eyes as I stroll down the block. My gift to each household— they’ll actually wake up to something interesting for once.

My opening song ends and I flare into poetry. Some homes catch the pronouncements of Dylan Thomas through my voice, others the clarity of Robert Bly’s words.

The spotlight follows me in each streetlamp I walk under until I reach a dead-end. I skirt the edge of night shadows for the final act. With arms raised I channel Poe. The streetlamps flicker and fuzz until they burn out. I am blended into the dark as I process back home. The Ring™ cameras can’t see me. They only hear:

I heed not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my fate
Who am a passer-by.

The poem recited is “To ---” (1829) by Edgar Allan Poe.

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evening sun through Flemish glass
the same light from Genesis
burns on my wall,
a cosmic message

like an ancient solar scroll
waterfall flames down the wall
with a pulse,
a cracklin' cascade 

like a 3D sonogram
image pregnant with distant fires 
a projected proof of life,
highlights edge the nascent shadows

a reflected brilliance 
like the language of eddying pools
the day signs off,
with one last gift

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Check out some more of my poems :)

Apparently this is too big for emails (fault of the pics), so just click the link to see it in all its glory.

1. My Lady Clears The Gutters

I married a strong if not reckless woman. I’m no handy man. My hands are only for loving my wife and quickly drawing my bananas from the hip (a lost art). So my wife naturally does a lot of the handy work. I once caught her cleaning the gutters using a Swiffer and an office chair. YES! The ones that roll and turn without warning. I nearly had a heart-attack, but the gutters never looked better.

I want to co-write this song with because he’s an excellent poet who knows all about farming in the mountains and all the fortitude that comes with it. He can help inform all my wife does around the house. Now before you hurry to comments and ask, “Hey, Ricardo what about the rest of the band? It’s always been Ryan Small and the Bad At Names, right?” Well I’m here to break the news that Ryan has decided to pursue a solo career. I’m throwing him a bone with this one!

2. Let The Raccoons Watch

I’d like to say we’ve all been there, what with all the songs about love in trucks and the starlit night, but how often could that really be happening? This is a song that brings reality back to fantasy. Yup, if you and your honey find yourselves in the throes of passion in the great outdoors the raccoons are gonna watch. Leave the whip cream at home or they’ll be bound to join in on the frenzy, trust me!

I’d hire Clink Johnson and the Pemmican Gang because they all know about the outlaw life and love affairs in the “wild” west. Their hit song, “Hit The Hay” is reminiscent of the tone I’d like for this tune, a fiddle being an absolute must.

3. I Heard It Through The Grape-Vape

I feel the need for a spiritual successor to “I Heard It Through The Grapevine”, one for the modern day. Things have changed. Ain’t nobody really working in the grape fields anymore, but I walk through a plume of fruity vape clouds just about every other block. I’m getting secondhand hipster on the daily. I envision the Austin Texas based band Larry Timber and the Froyos would be a perfect match to make this song soar. Larry’s smooth Blues vocals and the experimental instrumentation from the rest of the Froyos are just what this song needs, they’re from the “keep Austin weird” part of Austin after all.

4. Say That Again For Pappy (He Lost His Hearing Aid)

This song requires empathy for those hard of hearing. We’ve all been at the family function where we can’t forget to include the seniors and veterans in our conversation. This requires navigating confusion and repeating ourselves so I am thinking of a sweet yet catchy chorus that will go hand in hand with the real refrains in our families. This one is going to go for the happy (Pappy) tears. I’m going with Guff Brooking for this one, he’s got some good tunes. If you’re Canadian you’d understand.

5. Deep In The Heart of Buc-ee’s

Ah Buc-ee’s, I bring it up every chance I get. The heartbeat of consumerism in Texas and, no lie, the best Bar-B-Q I’ve ever had. You can find anything at Buc-ee’s. I once saw a man leave the store with a mixed bag of boiled crawfish, sausage, corn and potatoes in one hand, and an air-hockey table in the other (it said assemble in 5 easy steps on the box). There’s gotta be a song for that! I imagine a song performed by Lockbourne & Raised, a popular band from Okeechobee Florida that were “too American” for America’s Got Talent. I think they can pull off a similar sound of Pink Floyd’s “Money” but with a southern twang. Replace the word ‘money’ with ‘Buc-ee’s’, the electric guitar with a harmonica, change the structure around, add some clever beaver lyrics and we have another hit, I’m sure!

6. Texas Temp And The Devil’s Tempt

Boy is it HOT down here in Texas. It’s so hot, I often feel like my insides are evaporating faster than my sweat, leaving me with little energy and a broken spirit. That’s when the Devil comes like a vulture to tempt me when I’m at my weakest. If it’s hot outside you’re cursin’, road ragin’, and overall just player hatin’. Indeed that last sentence should probably be part of the lyrics sung by father-son duo “Cranky” Hank Jenkins and “Cranky” Hank Jenkins Jr. Reason being is pretty clear I think. They have that Johnny Cash edge.

7. I’m About A Quart Low

My favorite book title of all time is Lewis Grizzard’s “If Love Were Oil, I’d be About A Quart Low”, a reflection of the southern humorist’s relationships . This will be the song to accompany that book much like Led Zeppelin’s “Ramble On” accompanies The Lord of the Rings (a few of their other songs do too).

This will be a nifty song where the lyrics sound like a guy distraught over his engine and its lack of oil, but you come to realize he ain’t talkin’ ‘bout his truck. What some writers call an extended metaphor. There is only one crooner I’d want to sing this ballad, and that’s Chirp Willy. Chirp hails from Kentucky where he made a name for himself in piano bars where The Padiddles noticed him and helped get his first album The Unending Highway off the ground. Chirp is fresh off a breakup with Lainey Wilson, so he’d bring fresh heartache into this song (he really dropped the ball on that one, am I right?!).

8. I Got New Shoes (For My Horse)

We need a new “Boot Scootin’ Boogie”. Hopefully this one takes off and becomes a staple line (square?) dance song in southern weddings and the like. Because of the horse lyrics it could also be like a national anthem for horse races. The residuals from the Kentucky Derby would make me a rich man. I’m going with Shiddy Baker and the Rawhide Gang to perform this song as they have some killer harmonies, perfect for a crowd song anthem!

9. Relax, It Was Only A UFO

We don’t have enough UFO music and by golly we should get cracking on some pronto! There is “It Came Out Of The Sky” by Creedence Clearwater Revival and that’s about it, right? I’m definitely hearing some synth in this one, so maybe it will be like a cross between Daft Punk and George Strait. Perfection.

I see no other band than Hawk & Crow preforming this jig. They are straight up COUNTRY through and through, so we may need Daft Punk to be featured. Does anyone have their number? I’d settle for that French fella Kavinsky. Seems he needs a boost with no releases since that awesome Olympics closer.

10. Cake Mix ‘n Gun Powder

This is one of those tracks that brings you back to your childhood. Momma with the cake mix on the kitchen counter to you left, Daddy packing up guns and ammo on the kitchen table to your right. After a hearty breakfast of Texas sized pancakes, scrambled eggs, and crunchy bacon, you go out with dad and start blastin’.

I like this one cause it honors both mom and dad! If we could get One Eye Willie to sing this one now that he is in his later years, I think it would truly highlight that bittersweet feeling of looking back at the old times we can’t get back. If we can get Dwight Yoakam to feature for a verse or two it’s another certified hit.

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A special thanks to everyone below for coming up with country artist names when I asked in a random note. They did not know how I would use them. In order of appearance:

Bad At Names -

Clink Johnson and the Pemmican Gang -

Larry Timber and the Froyos - (me!)

Guff Brooking -

Lockbourne & Raised -

“Cranky” Hank Jenkins, “Cranky” Hank Jenkins Jr -

Chirp Willy & The Padiddles -

Shiddy Baker and the Rawhide Gang -

Hawk & Crow-

One Eyed Willie -

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Check out some related work of mine:

I walk the neighborhood in search of
a beautiful sentence or two
the evening blue holds the moon
like a developing Polaroid
I round the corner to a wall of candied scent
and find its beautiful botanic architect
the bloom is fresh
I feel it waft through my pores
sneak past the spaces in my smile
and I wonder why the dogs 
aren't howling with me

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***Sometimes the literary radio waves carry with them a pesky static, echoes of an adjacent station where the words are still thoughtful, though ever so irreverent and jocular. This is that static. This is part of that echo.***

Dedicated to and

I landed a job interview fairly quickly a couple months ago. This was not unusual for me. I know how to play the game, many games indeed. I’m ranked #112 in Tetris in the lower United States. Anyways, what I didn’t know was what I was applying for. A job, certainly — but with an unknown employer. Jasmine, the recruiter, spelled out enough of what I needed to hear though.

“Ricardo, your resume stands out, a great opportunity came across my desk and I think you could be a great fit for this position as redacted. The pay range is between 104K and 139K depending on your experience, but I can’t tell you who the employer is yet.”

I thought the position of redacted was a weird one for a company to have, but I sure thought the pay sounded good. Enough to pay for my growing comic book collection, choccy milk, chicken nuggies, and utilities. I should have asked more questions, but it looked like my essentials were covered.

“Set it up, Jasmine! You doll!” I said. She explained that it would be a virtual meeting of the outmoded kind. Jasmine asked me to confirm my home address because the employer was going to send me an important disc.

“What for?” I asked.

“The disc will load a version of the long discontinued Yahoo Messenger onto your computer where the employer insists the first meeting should be. You should get it next Tuesday, make sure it works and sign in for the meeting this Wednesday at 11:37 am.”

I waited with confidence. I preemptively put in my two-week notice at Buc-ee’s and managed to sneak away a few bushels of beaver nuggets for my winter stockpile.

****

Sure as shit, I received the disc in 3 business days . I loaded the disc into my laptop and played the Era’s Tour on the TV in the background for the occasion cause “we got bills to pay/ we got nothing figured out” am I right?

Sure as the sun rises, the white screen of Yahoo Messenger loaded complete with the purple trim from a time not long forgotten. The sign-in box popped up and I thought, hey its worth a shot. I tried my old username and password: TameImpasta_11 / ***********.

I was in. I was ready for my interview.

On the morning of, I sat on my big fat beanbag in front of my laptop. A tiny tabletop drum set to the left, and a glass of water to the right. This is how it went:

Interviewer3000: Hello, Ricardo. I'm glad we were able to set this up. We will be conducting this through the chat, no need to turn on the Super Webcam. My name is Gregory. 

TameImpasta_11: Likewise. Quite the meet-up. Brings me back to my middle school days. How is this even working?

Interviewer3000:  ...Shadow Cabinet is powerful organization. 

TameImpasta_11: I would have done research if I had known what exactly this was.

Interviewer3000: I appreciate the professionalism, but this is not an interview. This is more of a pitch. There are aspects of this world that are hidden from most people. Shadow Cabinet ensures mankind is on the right trajectory. Unlike other groups, we are the first to admit when we mess up. We haven't been able to right the ship since pesticides. That one got a way from us.   

I'm not working that case though. The project I am a part of is the Unity Project. Every so often, there are moments in time that can bring people together. We're trying to find the moments, ideas, people, stories, music, even foods that have the power to prolong these moments. Maybe even permanent ones. 

TameImpasta_11: Wow. So kind of like Bill & Ted? 

Interviewer3000: They got a lot of things right in those films, but that's all they are, films. This is real. That's the pitch.

TameImpasta_11: A fastball no doubt. 

Interviewer3000: Will you join us?

TameImpasta_11: Well what exactly will I be doing? Is this dangerous?

Interviewer3000: Full transparency, what you'll be doing is not, but the association always comes with risks. This needs to be kept quiet. 

TameImpasta_11: My name is Ricardo, but I need to be Frank with you before we continue. I firmly believe a utopia is not possible.  We can't even unite households. Plus I've read Watchmen, not to mention the Book of Revelation. The only real good we can do is with our immediate neighbors and hope our small sparks of goodwill catch fire, spread farther into the distance.

Also, I'm not going to hurt anyone, lie, or take part in espionage either. 

Interviewer3000: Well there will be none of that here. We have reached out to you for a specific reason. For context, based on our readings the song Despacito did a whole lot of good in the world. 

TameImpasta_11: Really? I hate that song. 

Interviewer3000: In cases like this when a team member isn't fully on board, we find spikes of other good things that help balance out these kinds of feeling towards unifying events. The release of that song coincided with your purchase of your first home in 2017, call it a butterfly effect. 

TameImpasta_11: Oh my, how did you even know that. 

Interviewer3000: We are aware of so much. 

TameImpasta_11: That's scary. Is this a prank?

Interviewer3000: Not at all. 

TameImpasta_11: So the job entails Despacito? With all do respect, F that. Plus, to be completely honest, my Spanish is not that great anymore since I stopped going to Taco Bell a few years ago.

What is the specific reason you reached out to me anyways?

Interviewer3000: Addressing your first question, no, we tried on several occasions to make Despacito 2 happen, but the recruits assigned to those missions botched the roll-outs bigtime, and they actually became legendary memes. Once we reach meme level, there is no going back. We pruned that initiative. 

We need a reboot, and we think you have a unique taste in art, music, and writing. Your writing on Substack in particular is inspiring to many of us here at Shadow Cabinet. The one where you dance with a beautiful blonde at a concert is my personal favorite*. We want you as a consultant.

TameImpasta_11: Wow that's a deep cut. That's flattering. I'm fond of that one too. Hey, that salary seems quite low if my efforts are going to help save the world, don't you think "Gregory"?

Interviewer3000: We don't do this often, but we can offer more... the only thing is it needs to be completely off the record. I'm afraid "we cannot move further" ;)

TameImpasta_11: I'm listening...

Just then a candle-lit moment went off in my head. That’s right candle-lit, most lightbulb moments come with overstimulating LEDs that will fry your brain. Make the change now.

Back to my epiphany. This Gregory guy was trying to butter me up, meanwhile the true motive of their contact was right in front of me the whole time.

TameImpasta_11: Wait! You read my Substack publication you son of a bitch?!

Interviewer3000: Yes, I don't understand?

TameImpasta_11: "H₂O (now with 5G)**"!!!! I'm on to your shadow games! I made a prediction that's laced in truth isn't it! You want to coral me and my foresight! Control me!

Interviewer3000: Name your price Potassium Pistol. Agree to a handsome offer, and don't ever write speculative pieces again. It will be the last you hear of us.

TameImpasta_11: I release what I want! I rather rot in the Kindle Graveyard.

It was the last message I got out before Yahoo Messenger went offline and smoke started to waft out of the disc drive.

*,** Referenced poem and story below

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Every cowboy develops a dominant eye under the sun. The other squints against the rays, catching stinging sweat in its pinch. Old Arthur was no exception, in fact he had the most extreme case in all of Bear Creek, mostly because he was old. His squint was so closed nobody in town could recall ever seeing his left eye, only a half spiral bush of brow in its place.

There were few mountains as weathered as Old Arthur. He spent most of his years accustomed to the arid affairs of the cowboy, a life spent being spent. And when the night came he spent his money on the dark drink and swore he could see the fumes of the day escape his skin and mingle in inebriate breaths shared with soiled doves.

Odd jobs from one town to the next made up his later years and saw to his reformation as a man of God. He called them his dust days. Dust in his shoes, under his nails, and especially in his red beard, even dust in his food sometimes. It was pointless to try to fight it, to put more effort into washing his coat than the occasional shake or slap, or to mind it entering his shamble home. Dust is what he’d return to when the sun sets on him for the last time. But Old Arthur always kept his two greatest possessions in pristine condition on his bedside table: his revolver from his past and his bible for the days ahead.

Despite the effect of the elements and time on his appearance or his lanky frame, Old Arthur was strong.

Snotty kids would often try to catch a glimpse of him loading his wagon with bags of feed on their way to the schoolhouse. They’d continuously yell:

“One Eye Art! How strong are you?!”

Sometimes they wouldn’t let up until he demonstrated some extraordinary feats of strength. Like stoically lifting small boulders or leaning against the lowly thick branches of a Madrone until the whole tree seemed to move.

One time they were being particularly annoying, asking over and over where he got his strength from, so he hurled a four-month-old pig at them clear over the fence. The kids squealed louder than the beast, scattered and ran away. Their teacher, Ms. Yolonda, nor their parents believed the kids until that evening when Old Arthur visited each of them with his hat in his hands to apologize.

“I am sure you heard what happened earlier this morning and for that I am sincerely sorry.”

A couple kids, out of fear of Old Arthur or their own parents, never said a word to them. Those parents said, “Sorry Old Art, but what are you talking about?”

“I threw a pig at your boys this morning.” Old Arthur said. The parents were perplexed but they accepted his apology, their worried kids hiding behind them. Before leaving each home, Old Arthur nodded toward the little ones, “I am going to confession at noon tomorrow, have a good night.”

Noon approached, Old Arthur on his horse patted along the dirt road to church and the children followed.

“I can see you. I still have both eyes you know,” he said, breaking their caution.

“What happened to your pig?!” they all shouted.

“Well…he’s gone.”

“You slaughtered him?” asked a little girl.

“No. I mean he got away. Fastest pig I’d ever seen.” He patted his horse’s neck. “I may be strong, but I nor Bonzo have any pip in our giddy-up anymore.”

“We’ll help you find him!”

“’Preciate that, but he’s probably long gone. I fear it might have thrown itself off a ridge.” Old Arthur chuckled.

“Why do you say that?” said a bifocaled boy.

“Well, the whole ordeal. It felt good to hurl that pig at y’all…and then I felt a great deal of shame. But in that moment my anger was gone and it left with the pig, kind of like—”

“Gadarene!” A kid said.

“Well, yes maybe. You’ve been paying attention during mass young one,” Old Arthur said with a nod.

“You think your anger possessed the pig?” said the worried child.

“Should we get the sheriff?!” asked another.

“No don’t get all bent outta heck! I just made the connection is all I was getting at. There’s a lot more to that story,” he pulled out his bible from inside his coat, “but the reality is that you’ll start to make all kinds of connections if you keep reading the Good Word. Parallels that can show you the way.” Just then, they reached the church steps.

“The connections don’t stop with the text, they continue with our friends—” Old Arthur’s voice broke as the thought of the good people who saved his soul surged to the forefront of his being, like he was living in the memories, like he could touch his friends long gone, the ones who gifted him the bible.

“We form bonds with our friends and our brethren. They’re the fellowship we tend to.” Old Arthur looked up, pointed at the steeple. His squint fell away, both eyes spelling glory with his smile. “This is where I get my strength.”

A special thank you to for his valuable feedback to the first draft of this story. I implore anyone to reach out to him if you need to bounce some ideas around or if you’re ever stuck, he will boost your confidence.

I loved reading ’s short story A Western Basm form Dimitri’s Bedtime Book and it, ’s effortless voice in his stories (literal and figurative), as well as ’s impressive storytelling, inspired me to toss my hat in the ring. Let me know what you think below!

P.S. I found the painting by Maynard Dixon in the book “The West of the Imagination” by William H. Goetzmann and William N. Goetzmann. I highly recommend this book to any fans of researchers of the Old West.

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two perfect 
hydrogen atoms
reacted with 
one oxygen atom
BOOM 
bonded
BOOM 
let there be life

the rest is history
but the future is sorcery

to make big changes 
our inventions got smaller
and 
smaller
until
intervention had no limits

how convenient to bring water
up to speed
to the fifth generation
performing in the fifth octave
of efficiency 

codes written between atomic bonds
if you are mostly water
you can be mostly 5G
a beacon for the new god

we did it!
we did it!
a more perfect fusion with Machine
what man combines
let no nature separate
it's all 
too perfect

Special thank you to my wifey, , who made the visual for this strange poem!

Paul Kingsnorth's “Against The Machine” has been on my mind lately, as you can tell. I think this poem is best served being read aloud, so I hope you clicked ‘play’.

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Some Background

On January 29, 2010, two dozen acclaimed artists came together to tribute Neil Young, Musicares Person of the Year, with their renditions of his classic songs. Music was always a familial glue in my home and I was exposed to tons of ‘old’ music because it was what my parents preferred, and by golly they were right about that sentiment. That being said, this event was a big deal to me because it was the first time I remember finding something on TV that I was excited for. I was a sophomore in high school and I was firmly curating my own taste in music.

While my parents raised me on romantic Spanish songs, classic 50’s-60’s rock, R&B (which is unrecognizable now) and 80’s pop, I had developed a separate affinity towards classic rock on my own. Artists like Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Tom Petty were always playing on my PSP. I remember spending the little money I had on CDs and books I found at Walmart. Neil Young’s Greatest Hits was a life changing album for me, possibly one of my greatest purchases ever (for all the disc nerds out there, this one was released as a HDCD, and the audio is still amazing).

The Song Then

When I say I found the tribute on TV, it was more of a stumble. The concert was already underway and I won’t bury the lead anymore, despite artists like John Fogerty, Elton John, and James Taylor in the lineup, I don’t really remember anybody’s takes other than Elvis Costello’s cover of “The Losing End”. It was transformative. See for yourself:

I had never heard of this Costello fellow before, and I wasn’t expecting much but I was quickly mesmerized. I remember immediately sitting my parents down just to watch his cover. He begins with an overt voice crack that made my parents kind of gawf like “what?!”, but it became clear to them as it did to me that this was just his style of singing, like a subtle yodel. It’s an entirely acoustic rendition of a song that bleeds with melancholy, hardly resembling Young’s original upbeat recording.

It is a heart wrenching moment in a show full of artists jamming out and having fun, and essentially a mic drop on the whole thing. By limiting instruments to just the cry of his guitar and the pain in his voice, the lyrics shine in their misery. Costello had something to say, even though the words weren’t his own. It’s a perfect performance.

There are some famous covers where audiences and the original artists alike agree that the new takes are now the definitive versions of the song. Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged cover of David Bowie’s “The Man Who Sold The World” (much to Bowie’s chagrin, at first), and Johnny Cash’s take on Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” to name a couple. Like those, I consider Costello’s “The Losing End” as the definitive version, no question.

The Song Now

As soon as I learned how to convert mp4s to mp3 files on the internet, you bet I nabbed this one and have been listening ever since. About a year ago I was at my local library’s tiny bookstore and what did I find sitting in a cart of DVDs but a freaking out-of-rotation copy of the tribute show on Blu-Ray. Probably the best single dollar I’ve ever spent.

One thing you ought to know about me is that there is always a song playing in my head. It makes it difficult to read sometimes, but fear not! I have some outlets like singing in the car or karaoke, but my favorite singing moments happen every night when I sing to my son as I rock him to sleep. I don’t sing the typical songs one might imagine. I was never a nursery rhyme type of dad, instead I sing “Not in Nottingham” (from Disney’s Robinhood), the Eagles catalogue, Neil Young’s catalogue too, and for some reason “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn” by Poison always makes the rotation. When my son’s little body stops wiggling and I can tell he’s veering closer to his dreams, I fade into “The Losing End” and I always sing it in the style of Elvis Costello

To think that I was only 16 years old when Costello gifted that performance to us, and now 16 years later I get to sing it to my son every night… I am in awe. , a prolific spiritual writer, recently wrote about God’s foreshadowing in our lives. I didn’t realize it before, but in the opening frames of recorded performance there is an intense glare of light reflecting off the mic stand for a few seconds. The almost heavenly glow just might have been a wink from God broadcast 16 years ago to tell me this was always meant to be a special song.

— Ricardo Guzman Jr, The Potassium Pistol

Last Thoughts

We just celebrated ’s first anniversary of his weekly show, Poetry On Tape, by performing each other’s poetry. It was such an incredible outpouring of appreciation for the poems published here on Substack, and each reading revealed something new for the listeners and the original poets. This is something has always been pushing, the importance of performance in our writing. In a way, we performed our own covers as tributes. I’ve been wanting to write this essay for a while, and it was this moment that made it all click for me.

We write because we can’t afford not to, and the way our pieces are appreciated once we hit ‘publish’ is out of our hands. What a blessing it’s been to be surrounded by wonderful poets and writers who have, like Costello with Young’s song, been wonderful stewards of my work, complete with surprising insights and even seeds of inspiration for their own work. Thank you friends. I hope you feel I have been that for you all too.

Bonus Cover Recommendations

The songs I am mentioning below are all the definitive versions for me now.

1. Dreams by Neil Diamond is a nearly perfect album comprised entirely of covers. This was released in 2010, proving that even out of his prime, Diamond is a formidable musician. The entire album is beautifully acoustic. Just strings and an older, statesmen like warm voice. Highlights include “Ain’t No Sunshine”, “Alone Again (Naturally)”, “Feels Like Home”, and “Midnight Train To Georgia”.

   **Funny enough he covers his own 1966 song “I’m A Believer”, a folky romp, which was revived by Smash Mouth in 2001 for the Shrek soundtrack as a bombastic pop song. Here, Diamond presents it as the moving ballad it always should have been. Talk about second chances!

2. “Disorder” by Joy Division preformed by Freak Slug. The original melody and baseline are intact, though slower giving it a haunting quality. The vocals are almost angelic instead of the chaotic style of the original.

3. “Landslide” and “I’m On Fire” by Stevie Nicks and Bruce Springsteen, respectively, performed by Gus Dapperton, and indie musician with a unique voice.

4. “If I Can’t Have You” by The Bee Gees performed by Adam Lambert on American Idol’s disco night. I know, its cheesy, but he brought the house down with an incredible vocal performance. He cut the disco out and went full ballad. The song will never be the same to me.

   What are some of your favorite covers? Let us know in the comments!

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she waved to me from the pond’s edge
I'd never seen a soul so elegant
her summer dress like flowering foliage
was she in need of a handsome gent?

"this is the boat I row" I said
"I've learned the lyrics of the water's song 
and the notes each ripple sheds
I can show you if you play along"

had I known the future
I could've told her "this is where your man was shaped
-- by constant rowing-- 
what muscles tear, the body sutures
strength that would leave your mouth agape"

and further in my rhyme
"this is where your husband learned to be steady"
But in the beautiful limits of time
all I could see was her smiling on the jetty

"this is the boat I row
and you'll be my tomorrow"

Edit: Shout out to who composed a wonderful track to accompany this!

I feel like it gives my poem another dimension, and the track itself fits the tone so well. I did not expect for this poem to inspire something like this, and it makes me more confident in my work, as well as more encouraged to run with inspiration I find from fellow writers!

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my misfortune
ruined my escape
now I'll never enter somebody else's hands

so what is this thing I hide?
a good laugh
an absurdity that is half the story

I was convinced I have been quietly dying
and I have been...
as much as I can stand

This page is from the introduction of Majestic by Whitley Strieber, one of my favorite books. Years ago, I bought this copy for a dollar at a book sale and it wasn’t in the best shape. It finally fell apart, so I decided it was the right time to visit Cave Erasure with it.

Cave Erasure is the place where the darkness of our ink bleeds onto words sent off into the void, and from this blackout baptism new poems are born. This one turned out quite pithy, and absent of all alien shenanigans found in the novel.

I have many more materials on hand to take on future Cave Erasure trips, but I will keep Majestic close. It's chock full of military documents, scary encounters of the third kind, and sex (civilian sex, it's not that weird) so it's bound to produce some interesting poetry.

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you are not yourself
and I am scared
we didn’t see it coming
I wish we were prepared

the warmth of your little body
corrupted by your fight 
red hot and climbing
no end in sight

I would give up parts of myself
just to heal you
medicine and prayer feel too slow
for this vicious flu

I have no other focus
but for the time after
when this fight is over
and we hear your laughter

There is no pain like watching your child suffer.

This was back during that week when everyone was posting pictures of those reddish pink lights in the sky over the Midwest, while my wife and I were being stared down by the dangerous red reading of the thermometer: fever.

This was a particularly hard one, with fever getting scary high. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, but my son has proven to be a strong little dude.

With Christmas coming soon, we’ve made adjustments to family gatherings and I’m always appreciative to those that are understanding. I think I’ll end it here or I’ll go off on a rant about lifestyles that kill your immune system and Big Pharma.

What brings you comfort when you or your child gets sick? Let me know in the comments!

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“So many people.” I said under my breath.

“Hey, it’s ok. We aren’t in a rush.” Maggie said.

“You can always sense when I’m getting frustrated, huh?” I smirked, relaxing my jaw— or at least I tired to.

“You make it easy.” She said laughing. I didn’t say anything back, eyes forward. She kept looking at me though with that shit-eating grin burning in my periphery. I always found it cute when she did that, but I’d never admitted it. She poked further. “Behold the tight grip on the steering wheel.”

“Maggie.”

“And that stern voice.”

“Oh my God.”

“Look we’re moving.” She said. She did a little dance, but she was so bundled up it was hardly noticeable. But I saw it.

I reached my hand out to hers. They spread my fingers more than usual, it was like holding hands with Minnie Mouse. “You’re still wearing your gloves?”

“I’m cold!” she said.

“The heater is almost at full blast, I’m dying in here!” I shouted.

She stayed quiet this time. Maybe I should not have shouted. The brake lights started flashing off like dominos and we started moving swiftly again.

I took a deep breath. I knew I could chose to get upset or roll with the punches. I knew that Christmas and the Christmas cheer that comes with it was very important to Maggie. Her heart was wrapped up in Christmas lights. Then I thought about the Donald Duck comics I love to read. They’re funny because Donald’s temper gets the best of him, but then he often ends up in worse situations because of it. Plus, losing your temper is only cute in the comics.

“Hey, where’s your little dance? We’re moving again.” I said.

“What dance?”

“You did a little dance earlier when the traffic let up.”

“I did?” she asked.

“Yeah, you always do a little dance when something good happens.”

I saw a little smile start to form. I continued, “when ever something excites you, like when a book arrives in the mail, or when you see a cat.”

“Really? I didn’t realize I did that.” She said.

The red brake lights all pulsed again and we rolled into a hesitant stop.

“I wasn’t dancing …I was just shivering,” she said in a serious tone, but then broke apart laughing.

I laughed with her as I wiped some sweat off my forehead which made us laugh even more. “The things we do for love.”

“We can turn the heat down just a tad.” She struggled a bit with her gloved hands. She looked at her phone briefly. “Oof, the GPS says another 45 minutes.”

Urgh, that was not what I wanted to hear. But I chose to look at the bright side. There was a beautiful girl beside me bathed in red brake lights who wanted to spend the evening with me. “Its alright, love. I won't let it ruin our night.” I pinched her chin.

“Well, we have a lot of time so maybe we can try knocking out some words of the day?” She suggested.

“Okay, what's my word?”

She flipped through her pocket dictionary of obscure words. We'd been randomly selecting some and checking them off as we went along, hoping to use all the words in a sentence by the end of the year. We made a pretty good dent in it, the pages were crinkled from all the ink. Her sheathed finger found one. “Cattywampus!”

“Oh man, what could that even mean?”

“Guess!” she said.

“Mmmm, gosh. An integral part of a sail boat?”

“Close.” She read, “First used around the 1830's, it means something in disarray or askew or an imp-like creature or a mountain lion.”

“Damn.” I thought about it for a second. Then I had it.

“When the cattywampus circus of life became too much, I knew who I could turn to to calm the storm.”

—FIN—

Hey! Thanks for reading this little piece 😀

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there are poets on other worlds
they may not have words like we do
but there must be something they bend into truths

what would they 'say' of the blasted hill before me? 
there's a road paved through it
and I commute through time
layers of rock and layers of ages 
on either side
a path through with a lesser view 

and do the aliens wonder 
how we turn thoughts into lyrics?

I was inspired by my doodle coupled with my commute. What is your latest inspiration? I’d like to learn how you come up with things to write about in the comments!

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etched lines bristle thick
is he monkey or is he chimp?

from language old he translates notions
assembles words from foreign oceans 

Brother Rob, the great connector 
messages filter through his center

constellations siphoned from Cave Erasure 
new words glint off Ursa Major

poem in hand, a gentle sponsor
they're for us to absorb, for him to foster

his eyes reflect back the infinite
a portrait of me most intimate

profile in Dutch angle
to his work, I hold a burning candle
 
whether person or whether ape
his sounds of truth take their shape

It's not just his inviting eyes and lovable smile that I find endearing. Ever since I discovered , I've been fascinated with his work. I'd implore you to check out his publication, The Soul of Rob, where he shares his poetry with occasional commentary on them, and of course his simian(?) soul.

He does exquisite translation poems and most recently, some erasure ones too. Not only is he publishing his work here, but he is also floating around the idea printing off some zines. Not only are we gifted his words, but his hand drawn artwork is also a treat (see some of his notes)!

He has been a great source of inspiration for me. To dig deeper, to contemplate more of the expanse in language, and to push the limits of my hand to paper. “a portrait of me most intimate”, i.e. what I can be.

Anyways, here’s to Brother Rob and his beautiful soul. To him I share a “bloodless bond”, as he would say. The monkey(?) to my banana.

— Ricardo Guzman Jr, The Potassium Pistol

Some Brother Rob Classics:

The Soul of Rob

I Dreamt of Flying

For years I dreamt of flying over the long spine of a mountain chain, the conversation of ancient plates frozen in stony vertebrae; over bells that cry for the passing of time, for the newly dead and the newly arrived; over domes of trees and the secrets they sheathe; and maybe over an archipelago curled up like a fossil or a fetus half-hidden in waves…

Read more

10 months ago · 4 likes · 2 comments · Brother Rob

The Soul of Rob

💍Salvador Novo: Pillars of Salt

Typically, I’d select a piece of Salvador Novo’s autobiography, Pillar of Salt (POS), and build a post around it. Today, I want to try something different…

Read more

8 months ago · 12 likes · 6 comments · Brother Rob

The Soul of Rob

💍Salvador Novo: Amor

A translation of Salvador Novo’s Amor, or Love [1]. Then a quote, and poem, and song…

Read more

9 months ago · 11 likes · 9 comments · Brother Rob

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