Speedway, Indiana    1963 -   
Ted Scheck
Ted Scheck
1 day ago

I used to hear the word
"Holy..."
And immediately, Ratman or
Bobbin would lamely
Limp into my mind.
1960s Shtick
Shtuck in my
Noggin, until...

I met a Holy Man
Whose name means
Either
"Asleep" or
"Wild Man"
Anyhoo,
He was/is/
From just past
Detroit
Cross the Border,
Bordering Cross.

He spoke of the
HOLY SPIRIT
That part of God Who
Which
Communicates with us
And us, HIM...
Of an unquenchable
FIRE that yearned,
Burned
Churned in the hearts of
His Children.
His smile was wide,
His eyes, shining, but...
But his words soon after
(Were not his own)
Not natural, but
SUPERNATURAL
From the Great
I AM.
The Lord Jesus Christ
Spoke inside this man's
Heart, Soul,
Mind, Body-
Spirit Holy.

his
(HIS)
words
(WORD)
Were written in
Indelible ink
Upon the surface
Of my
(sinful)
Human heart.

We
Had never met before
Our paths
(Crossed)
But he knew, He
Had a VISION.
He shared it with me.

Now when I hear
"Holy..."
I no longer think of
That common Red-
Breasted avian creature, but

The man whose
Breast and
Heart were on
Holy Cleansing Fire,
That burns brightly
Still

Can't tell you.
However, lettuce
Seigh:

You can't plan
A poem any
More than being
Spontaneous
Or
Preparing for the
Tornado
That will randomly
Hit your home town
300 miles and 4.5 hours
Aweigh!

A poem has
Pre-existence:
Like I used to, before
I went to a picnic with
Dad and left with
Mom

Poems are unborn
Twinkles in God's
I

Virtual, string-
Tree-like things
Screaming, Who-like:
"I'm here! I'm HERE!
Just THINK ME ALIVE!
That will be born
As thoughts
(I think)

Poems are the
Idea-seeds, already
Planted in the fertile
Brain-soil, and ideas
Are the paradigm-
Shifters of the Universe.

Ted Scheck
Ted Scheck
Aug 17      Aug 17

Oh, Mork.
Damn.
Genius-Madness
Oh-so-Sad Sadness.
Anger-Danger
Rage and Gladness
I am so sorry
The flip-side of your
Brilliantly Cre8tiv
Coin landed
Down.

What is beyond Genius?
That fine razor's edge,
Where they both dance and
Flirt on the demarcation
Line, spinning, control,
Out of, in, and out.
Who knew what it was
Like to be you?

There are those who knew
You, and loved you, and
Appreciated you. I'm creative
Like you like slugs are to
Sperm whales. Life's
Images can hit your eyes
So hard they leave dents.
People's words can sound
Like world condem-
Nation.
Tho I never met you,
You felt comfortable enough
To be a virtual-friend.
Spirit kindred.
Hero, if I am allowed
To use the correct
Context.

You were the Mt. Everest
Of Comedy, Improv, Stand-
Up and Delivery. Not impossible
To reach, but the effort, the extra
Ordinary effort to slow your
Einstein brain capacity so that
The rest of us could try to catch
A glimpse of the train
That was your life zooming
By.

I'm sorry your pain and misery
And anguish and the hole
You were in were finally
To massive to bear.
You will be missed,
Dearly,
Dear Mr. Robin Williams.

I'm on the road, but not
Actually on. A. Road.
Per se.
I avoid roads like cliches
Avoid plagues.

Fields are much better
Travel companions. As
If a lined-paper stretch of
hoed land could thought to be
Friendly to your feet, and knees,
And mind
Not that you traipse across it.
Specially
Corn. Inside corn fields is always
Maze-Y.
The Wind loves singing through
Discordant notes of thistle and
Thatsle; whatsle you'll hear
Musically is really up
To you.
But at night, the stars shining
Through the feathery filters of what is
More than knee-high by 7/4/whatever
Is a forget that's hard to memory.

Sleep in cornfields and you'll
Wake to the pleasant murmurings
(And nocturnal rustlings)
Of mice using your clothes
Body boots shaggy unkempt hair
For warmth. Sore neck, sore back,
Worth it, comically ship-jumping-so:
The little furry squeakers realizing the
Empty soft boat wasn't empty at all
And the critters abandoning you
With the flicker of tails, gone. A
Maze-ing.

Forests. Hmm...Temperate
Temperament. More
Crazies in the woods than amongst
Iowa's cash crop: 1 must B careful.
They generally want to be left A
Lone; I specifically avoid them, or
Will travel act like their long
Lost crazy cousin.
Just to fit
Out.

Small fires in copses of woods,
Huddled near flames, ears
Prickled for the sound of
Angels dancing on the pins of
Heads.

Occasionally, I tire of the peace of fields of
Green tassels and tall deciduous
Trees, and I hear cars, and imagine
I hear the conversations held within.
So I take my bottled strangeness out
Of seclusion and rejoin the race
Humana.
More often than not, I meet up with
The Angry.
They congregate in coffee houses.
Huddle in hostels.
Mob motels.
You get the jpeg.
The Angry desire to
Do what I do by second nature, and
By nature, first. I've thrown off my
Self-imposed chains, and walk free.
They see this - in me - or see the magic
Dust my boots tracked all the way across
Their own barren linoleum flo.
They are trapped in their mind-traps.
The Angry would imprison me and
Masquerade as me simply for spite.
(If they could CATCH me, bwaa-haa!)

I walk quickly, lope along I80.
I hate to do this. It's Russian Roulette
With 6 bullets in 6 chambers.
But to get to the back roads, you some
Times have to travel the fore roads.
Troopers of State do NOT like
Peds on the road. But many of
Them, after stern sternly Drill-
Sergeanting you with their Smokey-
Bear hats, will drop you off to
Your destination. "Keep safe,
Sir." They intone with such
Seriousness that I'm always
Biting the insides of my
Mouth. They could use a
Few dewy misty nights
Slumbering in an Iowa
City cornfield, waking with
A brood of mice nestled in
your knapsack.

Food. There's an issue there,
For some. Not me - not then, not
Now. The future is only the future
When it's tomorrow. Candy bar
Smashed by a bike tire in the
Gutter? What, some puke-eating
Dog should have that? Gross.
Gross is grossly
Defined by how long you'd
Not eat when your food ran
Away. Since I have almost
Nothing except a small green
Canvas satchel and a larger
Knapsack of essentials
(A few tools, a fire-starter,
Water purifiers, and my pen and
Notebook) and my good...

...Boots and thick socks and 1-
Piece Union Suit and many
Layers I'm glad to have at
Night but make me sweat
Heavily in the sultry
Iowa summers, I eat on the
Fly. Sometimes I chase away
The Fly to munch on what
It munched. Gross.
It's a living, because moving
Is work, blessedly peaceful, yes,
But have you ever seen a fat
Walker? They either get skinnier
Or they expire. So I eat
Whenever and whatever and how
Ever.

Dumpsters. Garbage cans.
The backs of grocery stores.
I trade sudsy soapy pruned hands
For burnt pizzas and more bread
Sticks sticking to my stomach
Like doughy glue. People out
There - people alone in crowded
Rooms - will trade kindness and
Conversation for food they may
Have taken home with them, or
May have just thrown away.

Lowered
Expectations, skinny middle,
Sore feet, leg muscles wanting
To stay up and watch late-night
TV, swollen ankles eventually
Going to sleep with the rest of
The body as I'm huddled in a
Little snow cave in Iowa, or
Waiting a rain beneath an old
Wagon, or bunking with my
Mice-buddies in an old barn.
There's a lot of life out there,
A skinny man with long, blonde,
And usually dirty hair, sweaty,
Smiling, eyes bright, nostrils flaring
At the scent of humanity: a
Peaceful Mind wandering
Around the belly-button of
America.

White funeral:
Self to death-
Death to that deadly
Personal pronoun that
Rhymes not with me,
Or YOO, or Them, but
One of the two orbs by
Which we dimly
C.

Death to that cursed
Fish
That swims, always,
Always alone. By it
Self.

Hell, fish?
Sel fish.
Somebody ring the bell,
Fish.

White funeral.
Shed the skin.
Death, decay, diseased!
Shake it OFF.
Let the Old Man
Who lives as the gleam
Of our "I"s

Selfish swim
Alone in an aquarium
Sea of variety, seeing
None but their own
Reflection in the much
Much bigger eyes of
Prey opening eating
Swallowing little
Selfish whole.

Why did the little
Fishy die?
Because it thought it was
The lonely fish in the sea.

The body of water
That we are immersed in
Inception, Conception -
The Mother, fading into
Oblivion:
The Present Moment
Born, dead
Taken back into Mother's
Comforting passed embrace;
The Father of Time -
The Endless Stretch of
Roads unseen and unheard

Father falls in the river
Father IS the river, flowing,
Head-first,
Ever going in time's
Unidirectional non-direction -
Father drowns, dies to the present
Child - who opens their eyes,
Momentarily alive in the human
Being's perception of time being
Plastic elastic stretching
Future into now, now into
Then:

Child moment dies for the
Um Teeth
Time
Present Father dissolving
Moment of truth, truth of moment
Mother rocking her new baby
As Baby grows steadily older
Growing older as the past
Eats the future,

As the river of time eats us
From inside out, outside
In the river that
Flows us ever older

Rivers dry up, except
The Mississippi.
If/When
That particular long and wide
And fat and deep
Body of Wa-Wa
Completely dries up,
The World, as SK
Was fond of saying of
Roland of  Gilead and the
Shadowed Spire,
"Has moved on."

Monstrous
Glaciers partied hard inda
MIDWEST!
For, like, endless freezing
Nights and equally
Chill-laxing daze,
Man! Man? Dude!
Dudes? Little dudes
With spears takin' on
The Mammoths! No
WAY!
Way.
They'll not outlive and
OutLAST US, My
Frozen Bros!

(But we had fire, the roasting
Kind and the hot burning
Coals within our spirit,
Fire to perpetuate our
Species through endlessly
Cold nights and days)

Whoo-Hooo!
Dude! You plowed
DEEP last night, Bro!
What's that stuff on yer
Brow. Sweat?
Hey is it me or is it
Hot in here?
Dudes? We're like
SMALLER

Irregardless, or
Re, the You SSS of
A has a large dent
In its midsection.
Because those partying
Glaciers were forced back
Into polar hiding, shedding
Great earthen chunks of their
Fatty selves, carving and
Slashing
The most fertile watershed
In the country.

Their ageless and
Timeless enemy, that
Bright Yellow Orb,
Opened its great
Cyclopean eye, and
Focused, yet again,
Blessed rays of light
Heat, and life.

The melting...
Water lying on the ground,
Unsure? How about we start a
Pool? I bet it'll pay
Off to flow on not-flat ground, the
Pool collapses and begins flowing
With purpose, streaming
Together as a larger
Body of water:
The Miss
'Sippi.

Any number of
Numberless great and lesser
Lakes up North
Decided to be hole-
Y. Gravity
Did the rest.

 
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