“A Jacket With Teeth”

Image Link

“A Jacket With Teeth”

Never the rain slicker that gets dirty or sloppy spaghetti sauce, or spilled derogified coffee cream souring as it dries. No, but,instead it’s the sweet cashmere, velvet, valore, denim jackets of the world with the satin inlays, maybe? The ones with the puffy breasts, and secretive pockets for secretive things. Those are the ones.The ones that when you roll around in a pile leaves, the schmere of dog shit remains on the sleeve just at the cuff. Jackets that call for bird droppings from above. Coat coverings that are prideful and vain, the ones that tempt fate. Magnets for malign. I love how people take offense  at their sports team of choice, and  complain about having to add another championship patch to their jacket because there’s no more room or that it makes the design look a bit off. then somehow, whatever they do, they up and die and you see them in the casket with their modified jackets containing all the spoils of death all the roiling churning rotting meat. tokens put inside the pockets.packs of cigarettes and cigarillo, lucky poker chips, perhaps a used pen that doesn’t write under water. also, when no one was looking, that young gal you had the good time with sneaks in a pair of panties that were there when the lights went out. those are the stuff,  the things. the portable property that follow you to your penitent end, pertinent end, palliative end. patience gone with the rest, and sometimes we wear Champion sweatshirts out, and then it rains. the material gets moist and soaked, and thoroughly heavy, weary heavy.  those were all the rage for a while. they were items of status. if you didn’t have one in my neighborhood when you were a kid, then you weren’t with the cool kids. clothes make the man. I don’t know, one time John Rivers showed up my house with a garbage bag full of secondhand jackets which he was going to sell to me for a modest price. I can’t remember if I bought one, but I do remember trying one on for size,  and then I thought about his mother and the times that I witnessed her humanity. For me, I was just as excited in the second grade when I received my first Baracuta jacket with the tartan inlay. It was a gift for receiving the body of Christ into my body. sacrilicious. there as a little piece, a loop,  in the back that you could hang your jacket out on a hook. between that, and the Scally cap I was as third generation Irish-American as they come; getting a particular and peculiar parochial education. playing street hockey until the dusk overcame us. listening for church bells so that we knew when to be home in time for dinner. Spaghetti-O’s Spaghetti-O’s, Beefaroni, what is it? Full bellies in short nights, ended with early morning entry behind regimented school yard lines, that ended up somewhere in dark coat rooms with book-bags, and lunch pails, and lunchboxes and Kelly green Baracutas hanging in sequence. Secret pockets full of string, and Star Wars figures, and Topps Hockey Sticker Book Stickers. Ready to be pealed and applied. Inside pocket made a nice place to stash a plastic .45 revolver, and you could get to it in a pinch. and then when we heard about being able to obtain a switchblade comb at the U.S.S. Constitution Gift Shop, we went all in, until our parents found out. Regardless of uncombed hair, Michael Jackson taught us that we needed switchblades to settle our differences. Thank God, we never made it to Neverland. I don’t know if a Baracuta jacket could have protected me from that broken soul. wrapped neatly around my waist on a spring trip to Pine Banks. Perfectly, Baracuta. I jacket with teeth. And I chased the girls around the rocks, listening to the delights of Footloose Soundtracks, and other magical notes on the portable-not portable boom box upon my shoulder. Bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a car. I don’t know what happened to that jacket. I only hope that it found it’s way to another as deserving, or more deserving soul. youth plays invincible, and in order to slay dragons, you need the appropriate armor.

Advertisements

Advent Calendar – 2018: Day 12

Advent Calendar Day 12

“When We Were Immortal”

the sky is immortal
“Immortal Sky” © C.P. Hickey 2017

There was a time when we were immortal.

Fresh, brand new.

Born into youth.

Excited for lazy pleasures and long days.

Summer adventures,

Christmases.

Depending on the strength of the gods surrounding us.

We could do anything and seemed robust.

Time distorted the truth,

and aided in our fall.

What once defied the setting sun,

grew less with each passing year.

Until, finally the world swallowed the moments whole.

There was a time high on the mountain,

when living seemed forever.

It was remarkable, but short lived.

Today marks the bittersweet anniversary of my maternal Uncle Kevin’s death. He is sorely missed, and I do my best to honor his memory as much as I can. I’ve added some links below to other poems and posts related to him, that I’ve written in the last year. It think it only fitting that he makes the ProCrasstheNation 2018 Advent Calendar. When I think of an Advent Calendar, I think of looking forward to something, and now in a sense, looking back. There was a lot of mystery behind Uncle Kev’s doors. He was easy to know, but at times kept his cards close to the vest. Thinking fondly of the many ways in which he enriched my life. He lived a life of patience and tact, and used these talents to teach his young niece and nephew game theory, or as he called it “STRAGEDY” There is many a night when I look at an empty cribbage board and smile within the glow of the memory it brings forth. There are many gifts in life that we are lucky enough to receive, but it is entirely true, that the gift of time is the most precious. Kev gave us as much time as we needed or wanted. 

If you liked this post…perhaps these might appeal to you as well:  New England Giant, POEMVEMBER 2018-DAY 8: “A GIANT AMONG MEN”

, A REMEMBERANCE

“Presiding”

“Presiding” ©️C.P. Hickey 2018

“Presiding”

There are sounds in graveyards.

Earthen sounds of sorrow and surrender.

Sonic suppositions and wailing gypsies.

Contemplative gorge.

Terror of impermanence.

An impasse, but not passive.

Hang around long enough and you train your ears to listen.

On the fringe of life, abutting, and right up against it.

A city of ruins, leading paths to a suburban eternity.

Invited patience sublimates itself to the alpha regret.

Sinister doubts press courage from beating hearts.

The busy silence teases out the denied emotions of Faustian bargains.

Legions of lifeless bones, marked by dust and stone.

A marathon sprint to stillness.

Perpetual motion, dispatched to be oblivion.

Authoritative immense silence speaking volumes to those not willing to look.

A distant buzz of lawn-grooming engines, drones on.

A lulling drone; consistent.

Cars passing by on the periphery, allowing measurable distance to be heard.

Rushing toward a graver situation.

Whistling past the graveyard.

Tenants without complaints, barely registering.

Rotting remains, animate the six-feet deep dioramas of death beneath our feet.

Worms, et al, explore yawning canvases.

A subterranean bacchanalia.

Mourner’s tears ant farm tunnels in the shoveled earth.

This offends the dead, but no one understands why?

Perhaps grief humors the living, despite the noise of the dead.

“Windermere Plantigos”

“Windermere Plantigos”

Abutting a frenzy of dancing air,

Petals and leaves propel themselves still.

Potted points of oxygen emissions.

Nature dovetails with man made structures.

Breaking left and right,

Aboveish and belowish.

Invisible force,

Much like gravity,

But not as omnipresent.

A delicious chill leaks down my back and puckers my cheeks.

The time of seasonal consistency approaches its end.

Onward to the new death,

And dying things.

That somehow make it their business to appear at a later time.

“Raindrops and Tubesocks”

Image Link

“Raindrops and Tubesocks”

When I was a kid,

I enjoyed being outside in the rain.

Not directly, of course,

But, huddled in a doorway, or a shed.

Breathing dampy.

Listening to the regal pitter-pat of raindrops drumming on corrugated roofs, or the splintered plywood of makeshift forts.

Raw earth and drinking greenery would tickle my nostrils,

And car contrails of mist would space the distance according to the traffic tempo.

If you listened carefully, you would hear man-sized Tonka Trucks, pile-drivers, and the whistling sound of landing planes on final approach.

The safety of a semi-dry place during all of this,

Made me feel the good alone.

Defying nature, until it was time to return home.

When I peeled off my soiled Chuck Taylors from puddle stomping missteps.

My white socks would be ink black.