“The Kick” ~ An Outtake

menobodyknows.comOnce upon a time, when recklessness was generously shared, we used imagination to learn everything together. We had our wicked ways, didn’t we buddy? While everyone else was playing it safe, too wishy-washy for our breed of theatrical delinquency, we grew drunk on the excitement of an entirely unexpected friendship. We howled at a blessed moon, believing that collective strength would protect us from anything that dared to challenge a taste of pure freedom.

Before we knew one another; before curious wills merged into a brazen streak of foolish youth, what were we like? I can’t remember & it‘s only been months since you died. Were we stronger apart? Luckier? Did consequence bear the same impact, in the way we would become accustomed? Our discoveries became so interchangeable; growth was shared eagerly. Promises were made & those words cascaded sparks so vivid we were set ablaze—never would we lose the vows of trust.

Remember when we watched our first movie? There was tension in the air—an apprehension for the level of potential appreciation. We worried that our passions might not be aligned; over-eagerness would be interpreted as perversity of taste. We sat in silence, familiar images rolling by & though we had both knew the film by heart, the dynamic was fresh because we were watching it together. Distraction was guarded against because it was a purity of experience we desired—a test for the depths possible formed by a shared religious experience.

When the film finished, we waited in the darkened room, pretending to read rolling credits but instead we savoured the success of an experiment. Both had passed, that was certain but where was this success to lead? A bright, exciting future lay before us, even brighter when we hit the club’s dance floor to celebrate. With this infusion complete, an experience shared so perfectly, months would pass & it was that initial magic we were always re-creating. Like junkies chasing the invisible dragon, we re-lived the dreams born from that initial ritual & with just the right amount of magical thinking, destiny was set.

Media PsychoticMemory can be a prison from where the future is only anticipated, peering between cracks that form in the walls of choice. But it is a limited vision—a single ray of clarity that can only be read in the narrowest beam of light. In the midst of our movie, that hectic, living imitation of art, a crisis we never anticipated caught us unaware. Not some minor change, nor disaster; not flood or famine but the finality of disease & death. We were undone by an evolution of fortune as we retreated in separate directions, towards the guilt of different decisions. We went desperate in the search for a different perspective, a better setting, compelled by unique terror.

We needed a happier ending than was inevitable.

Now contained to all that remains possible, memories blend into a mixture time stirs smooth. The past is easier to digest, though original agendas evolved warped or broken. Is there still potency in this reduced offering to the world of adventure?

vimeo - pickyrickyProtected within a glass orb of memory, we are frozen, remembered in time.
When this forever-friendship is shaken, space once again comes alive with magic. In this light, paths of unparalleled happiness once again spread possibility.

For this I shall remain grateful, eternally.

{Images:www.menobodyknows.com, Adrian Ghenie, pickyricky@vimeo}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Refutations of the Fleur d’Amour”

Leona Carrington - RefutationsMemory strikes like a train;
the shock of an empty glass
rewinds naturally.
That strange summer began
to prohibit desire; sexual perimeters
so the rules deepen which govern
secular behaviour.
The plot here is simple & fun
to write—initiate devout participation;
penetrate the Zen of seduction
onto a familiar horizon
of ambition incapable of retaining any language
but the sensual.


Anxiety-model women express
in worried eyes.
They whisper when others leave the room;
false evidence, appearing real
led by hormones to drown demons in a flood
of pretend emotion—that was what mother
taught her.
As women of that temperament understand,
drama is bad for complexion so
the ego surrenders feudal aspects
of loyalty & faith.

Track the roller coaster: At fourteen it was
a whisper;
screens kept dividing so she punished them
by taking away the light.
When they didn’t care, she organized
a deeper fury.
Toxic in shame; she falls in love
with disapproval.

Is it a fear of failure which renders
so brilliant?

Start of the next chapter: What is to be
her secret name? The spirit name?
Just before the last snowberry falls
into the nectar of dawn,
with the sun of life she rises
to meditate.
Raise the spell of the Fleur d’Amour:
In the passages of memory
she twists like a fading star;
thoughts like fish float through
as the dreamscape of an
emerging soul.

An ironic coda: Power up her sleeves;
from those deep pockets—she reasons
like a junkie,
fast & self-serving,
with all incumbent strange codes & restrictions.
A film of lurid association
covers her when she returns from
the experiments;
a Dorothy already tired of Oz,
more tricks in her than a pair
of foxes.
So complicated she should come
with instructions.
Back when she was living the life, she sang every
song on the radio.
For emotional relief,
she bullies the stereo all night,
a mind blown to pieces.
Wants people to know the darker side
of ambition,
how everyone gets more & more
decadent & before you know it,
they are crazy
for drugs.

This is only half of the tale—her side
of the story.

{Painting by Leonora Carrington}