Blinded by the sunlight that shines so brightly,
it proceeds to massage my spectacles,
rinsing the grime away from my eyes,
there lived mankind, buildings, plants, and animals,
but where was I, unaware of the planet I saunter,
I look in amazement, unborn to what to forecast,
but then I distinguished the dark side, somber and bleak,
impoverished skeletons walking hunchbacked, desperately
scrambling for silver, as so to purchase a bottle of liquor and a burger to indulge his vacancy that absents him,
as I trek my way further into this metropolis,
I hear a sudden commotion arising from the right direction,
it begins to steer me that way, luring me in deeply there was a mass of onlookers chanting on, of what seemed to be two individuals pummeling one another into a bloodbath, but then it escalated, the crowd began to all partake in the beating and it caused a mayhem, that was uncontrolled, I bolted the scene, protecting my mask from getting dismantled, as suddenly I hear a very deafening noise, it was a four wheeler wagon, that speedily amtrac it's way towards the locus in which we was in, everyone scattered the scene, as the people who dressed in uniform annihilated the scene, putting an outright stop to the madness that occurred, forestalling future procreation from the participants, my heart shriveled and I gasped for air, I ran aimlessly into a town that was lively and sunny, as I saw mankind playing sports, clubbing, riding nice convertibles, homes were futuristic, plants were vegetated, smiles and giggles were infectious, everyone was cheerful and amused enjoying this utopian I discovered, it was care-free, as folks walked in suit and ties, formal dresses, luggages entering and exiting, dialect as clear as caribbean sea, friendly animals chaperoned by their owner, "where am I?", "what was this strange but yet interesting soil I embark on?", ..... I don't know, but it closes me in like a maze and I'm forced to live as they.

When you paint houses
bring your little brother
Hoffa couldn't keep his mouth shut
Mannlicher Carcano carbines
cleave off
the tops of skulls
Cosa Nostra prove
The idiocy of convertibles
Pretty boy politicians
sprayed across Jackie's face
Kennedy never should have rocked the boat
Bufalino brotherhood born for bloodshed
Irishman knows that
.32 goes in but doesn't come back out
Turning grey matter into brain sauce pudding
Hoffa couldn't keep his mouth shut
Got what he wanted
kept demanding more
Stupid Sicilian stooges get sliced up in pork store backrooms
limbs spread to the four corners of Michigan
Irishman painted his house
Hoffa couldn't keep his mouth shut

Ever seen the inside of a Teletubbie's belly?
I did
that **** gave me cataracts and glaucoma
which lead to injesting large amounts of guacamole
got huge
mostly in the head-
found a homeless man, let him sleep on my couch
he liked to tell stories about his encounters with celebrities
oh which he was one
back in the day, I think he was on Rosanne
never watched it but he was cool enough
we biked to the overpass to drop waterballoons on those who needed them most
like fake-tanned blondes in convertibles
and bicyclers.
I love all kinds of people and can forgive their beligerence
though mine are quite strange
I like canoing in trees and making mosaics from bone fragments and rubies
just a bit of a mind juggler
smacking singles on counters for pregnancy tests and breath mint
tell a tubby his belly is wide
and boy you'll be scoutin' a whole new skull.

On Saturday
any Saturday
every Saturday

multi-themed pedestrian parades
pour down commercial corridors
celebrating a holiday known as

WEEKEND.

Middle school queens throw
exaggerated waves
from backseat upholstery tops

in imaginary convertibles marking
the current flow route between
Foot Locker and Game Stop.

Marching throngs display
personal banners on
plastic handled brand bags

drawing peer clusters,
human petaled floats,
vying for ribbons

passing devoutly interested
sideline spectators
now feeling a bit empty

without score cards.

Hippos, thin men, package jugglers
stroll along the branching avenues
labeled in chest advertisements

including everything from
Magnetic Health to Jesus.
No mega-city floatilian

compares to the mall regalia
in a midsize hometown
duck-n-spend.

Though it may be
a little short on free candy
it is still sponsored in part

by Macy's.

Interlocked peddler palaces
reign as shopping centers,
though shopping is the least

of the reasons to be here;
not unlike people going to
a hockey match

are not going to watch hockey,
or partakers in Nascar
don't actually go for racing.

Truth is,
we are all hoping
to see a collision,

Haves with Have Nots,
Lovers with Haters,
Colored Hairs with High & Tights

Refined with Undefined
Talkers with Solitaries
Personal Loathing with Itself.

Unanimously, they all come
for the curiosity of encounter
incalculable, anxious, wanted

or unwanted.

In secret,
dreamers hold royal hopes
praying to Aeropostale gods

pleading favor with credit cards
and a bump in popularity
that if so anointed

the purest of this parade's followers
would be next week's
Grand Marshall.

Leaflet through the door on a 5K run for charity.
Spam email on the benefits of the Paleo eating regime.
Pals posting photo's of culinary creations on Facebook,
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

In Scotland, half the people in poverty are working families
struggle to survive day-to-day and the basics of food to live
being asked to work longer hours for less money
while the politicians say they have nothing more to give
and the "Queen talks about austerity while wearing a £1 million hat"
(I'll thank Frankie Boyle for his razor sharp insights on that)
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

Contrary to common misconception it doesn't always rain in Scotland.
This week its been 26 degrees, and Glasgow is awash in t-shirts and shorts, and beer gardens with bees. Cold beer never looked so refreshing.
West Enders in their top-down convertibles extolling the virtues of organic produce from Peckhams and their exclusivity price-point gourmet cheeses,
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

Hot summer mornings, Cold summer nights.
I wake up to the smell of sun block and bronzer
My body absorbs the rays of the sun
like a mermaid at sea.

Hot summer days
full of ice cream and riding convertibles,
Oh summer days, how I love you.

The days dragging twice as long,
the drag I like, the drag I crave.
Hot, **** bonfires at the beach
the smell of freedom
youth
wild
&
love

The sound of the waves is as loud as the
beat of my heart
That's how much I love summer days

& when it's over?
Memories have been made.

I am from the pond out back, from frogs and dogs, and camping under the stars.
I am from camo and rifles, from gardening with my grandma to family reunions.
I am from blanket forts and Saturday morning cartoons, from late night adventures with friends to stories told by the light of a campfire.
I am from family and friends, love and happiness, but I am also from divorce and tears, from locked doors and yelling through walls.
I come from weddings and new beginnings, teaching me that even though there is a dark side to life there is a light at the end.
I am from ****** knees and biking down dirt trails, from adventure and mystery, not knowing where the road will take us.
I am from convertibles and the wind in my face, from predictable jokes to fishing on the lake in the warm sun.
I am from late summer nights on the beach with my friends to sled races down snow covered streets.
I am from memories that I have and the memories I have yet to make. My past is what makes me, me and I cherish last bit of it, good or bad.

He was certainly buzzed,
Drunk, a better word,
When his convertibles wheel
Struck a tree near the curb..
A woman’s scream;
then silence, shock.
He whispered her name
But no one answered back.

The artist was dying,
But still he observed:
The drip, drip, of his blood
Onto asphalt that’s cracked.
Death imitates art.
Now break, gentle heart.
Sirens sound in the distance
a bright light in the dark.
As all neurons fired
in search of a spark.

Il n'est pas donné à chacun de prendre un bain de multitude : jouir de la foule est un art ; et celui-là seul peut faire, aux dépens du genre humain, une ribote de vitalité, à qui une fée a insufflé dans son berceau le goût du travestissement et du masque, la haine du domicile et la passion du voyage.

Multitude, solitude : termes égaux et convertibles pour le poète actif et fécond. Qui ne sait pas peupler sa solitude, ne sait pas non plus être seul dans une foule affairée.

Le poète jouit de cet incomparable privilège, qu'il peut à sa guise être lui-même et autrui. Comme ces âmes errantes qui cherchent un corps, il entre, quand il veut, dans le personnage de chacun. Pour lui seul, tout est vacant ; et si de certaines places paraissent lui êtres fermées, c'est qu'à ses yeux elles ne valent pas la peine d'être visitées.

Le promeneur solitaire et pensif tire une singulière ivresse de cette universelle communion. Celui-là qui épouse facilement la foule connaît des jouissances fiévreuses, dont seront éternellement privés l'égoïste, fermé comme un coffre, et le paresseux, interné comme un mollusque. Il adopte comme siennes toutes les professions, toutes les joies et toutes les misères que la circonstance lui présente.

Ce que les hommes nomment amour est bien petit, bien restreint et bien faible, comparé à cette ineffable orgie, à cette sainte prostitution de l'âme qui se donne tout entière, poésie et charité, à l'imprévu qui se montre, à l'inconnu qui passe.

Il est bon d'apprendre quelquefois aux heureux de ce monde, ne fût-ce que pour humilier un instant leur sot orgueil, qu'il est des bonheurs supérieurs au leur, plus vastes et plus raffinés. Les fondateurs de colonies, les pasteurs de peuples, les prêtres missionnaires exilés au bout du monde, connaissent sans doute quelque chose de ces mystérieuses ivresses ; et, au sein de la vaste famille que leur génie s'est faite, ils doivent rire quelquefois de ceux qui les plaignent pour leur fortune si agitée et pour leur vie si chaste.

In the claustrophobia of the ally,
The hobo sits
Wearing a smile on his sleeve

Under the pink neon lights
Of convertibles and the 1960's.  

Where time stood still
And never moved.

Hobo-man saw,
Saw with his glassy light bulbs.

That the red, white and blue
Does not thrive on me or you.

Hobo-Man sat and watched time change
Watching the blue turn to gray
And gray turn to green

He will stay here, he thought.
Here in the ally way.

The world, too twisted, he thought.
Unable to make him stay.

For Hobo-Man does not live for time here, time now
Everything only makes him frown.

But Hobo-man still smiles somehow
In a world so crooked and hollow.

Hobo-Man burns like a fire
And lives life to live life

Mad to live
Mad to laugh
Mad to cry
Mad to love
Mad to die

Hobo-Man screams to the sky
Burning like a Roman Candle.

Butterflies and snow angels

Snowflakes floating across the sky
Cause such wild seasonal thoughts
Butterflies and snow angels
As the sun shines through the grey
Rainbows and snowdrifts
While traveling from place to place
Convertibles and snow plows
And life near the beach with
Snowmen and life guards
Playtime for children
Snowballs and baseballs

Copyright 2016
Richard L Ratliff

dare to look into the eyes
of a dreamer
once you do the world changes
pink palm trees and blue suns
old convertibles and black and white films
a song drenched with nostalgia
burning your ears and making you want all of the time you wasted back
but once you look into the eyes of a dreamer
you realize that youth is never really wasted on the young
because the only worry in the world was making your curfew
and making the most out of a Friday night
minds that were as infinite as the ocean on a breezy summer day
barefoot feet as free as the sun above the waves
all that lied ahead was the endless possibilities that the excitement of a night
with the right people could bring
once you look into the eyes of a dreamer
you realize only the young know how to dream

I crave what I see in my mind

The future I have constructed

I see a messy bed and the rising sun
Bare legs peeking out from wrinkled sheets

Our love written in every crease
Evidence is ever present

I see hands sliding

Fingers tracing

Mouths speaking with no words

But still

The message is received

I see open windows letting in the breeze

Sparkling lights in the distance

The moon yearning to feel our love
Perched above

I see my breath

The cold night air engulfing me 

Though never reaching my heart 

I’m warmed indefinitely by the love at my side

I see my hand on a soft chest
Discovering, for the first time, acceptance and

Freedom 

The only things I’ve ever wanted

I see the world in a new way

Each night is a new city

But happiness never sleeps

Life never rests it’s weary head

Neither do we

I see summer

Flowers sway with our whispers

Sunlight sings it’s song on your shoulders

I kiss and reminisce…

I see turmoiled oceans

As we drive down winding pathways

Atop cliffs 

High as kites

I see convertibles and buses

Afghans and kaftans

Guitars and bonfires and sand covered bodies

Psalms of palms that sway in the west coast wind

I see beads in my hair

Fringe on my sweaters

Rings on my fingers

Jewels on my brow

I see you in our makeshift home 

Sitting cross legged in briefs

Your back to me; face to the ocean

Painted gold by the suns halcyon kiss

I see undying allegiance

To freedom in its freest form

No red white and blue

But the sun, me and you

I see clearly in this still silence

No fear here, only peace

And I have you by my side 

To keep me safe from solace

The lost seas of writhing souls
Deep and the darkness, bucolic peasantry carrying a basin of mud
Protesting for better wages, in the bruised bulls of Wall Street
Seeking pursuit of happiness, and finding the answer
With each proceeding need and the greed just stops being a word
Mirrors and global skyscrapers, objects, all forecasted
We know what we will build for the future
A future of objectivism, and plants with books overlooking New York streets
Dreaming of better living in extravagant Manhattan
Teaching others about the poetic license, how you can lie
Blues and *****, and the breaths of the cold morsels
Murky hills, carrying pitchforks in boreal forests
Barking and biting, these are now chilly pine peaks
The heart seeks what it seeks, and omniscience and ubiquitous Gods
Like modern infrastructure, and precarious progress for the army recruit
There are plenary structures and assemblies of kitsch Kilimanjaro, replicas of mountains and wax models
Romancing each stone, and feelings of someone you once loved
You thank heaven, that she walked into the right bar
Sometimes, you hope she walks into the wrong seat and meets you
Greets you at times, as an alarm for the correct time
Tresses of eve-teasers lay ******* on great cars, some of them even make haste with purloined convertibles
Purring cats walk through Plainfield and Mclaren streets, foraging for serendipity
You'll be glad that heaven brought you to the right bar, to tell you are the right desire
In this sea of lost souls, thinking they are struggling
But, actually, they are tied to the confabulating and changing climate
Blaring horns of the bungholes and dungeons of bald men spot the madness from afar from the humble abode
All of them dying peptic ulcers, cirrhosis and drinking themselves to illness
Indemnified by their art, art is the way to explain these insecurities and voids of despair, we are a civilized bunch, right?

people
people
people
people
**** people
and their dreams
of white fences
and tidy suits
and red convertibles
**** that life

oh the profanity
the profanity!
you serious *******,
do I terrify?

I’m watching
all natural disasters at once
melting all together
morphing into
this human race

american exceptionalism!
I’m dead
in my boots
walking across
the shriveled streets
of rolling cornfields
of the past’s future
of the optimism
the ******* optimism
that is nothing but words
that is nothing but hope
we can’t eat hope
we can’t drink hope

time to starve
and pretend
that we’re
changing
when we never
moved
in the first place

A true beauty is never forgotten
It stays in the covert closet of our soul
unattended
spoiled
rotten
while we go outside
build millions of buildings
burn millions of trees

A true beauty is always instantly sold
for a price too big for convertibles
but too small for make-ups
When girls put it on
something is changed
something is lost
in a split second
We are touched
but eternally never moved

A true beauty could be as untangible as a sparkle in the air
we laugh
but we don't know why
Once I thought i had found it
during a fight with a dog in a dark alley
Another time
when a girl said no
but looked me in the eye
for so long
i forgot who i was

In an apocalypsed world
the true beauty will finally reveal itself
Survivors keel down in front of it
the chosen ones
crooning
chanting
relishing their reward
For that moment
we understand the value of death and eternity
then a million ******
in the remnants of civil society
in everything that glowed
every corner that denied
every discourse that faded
to reminisce
the passing of a million trees
For that
this unforeseeable future
I'm grateful

To sift through a million false beauties
tortured
convoluted
i'm still looking
waiting
for the sign
a sign concealed in that minute dance of wrinkles on your face
a dance that contains a million years of evolution
and some day
somewhere in that divinely lit shopping mall of royalty
of ancient colours
of trivial romantic tragedies
you will see me
after seeing a million others
you will be touched
and moved
and time will forever pause for us
for i have found it
the sign of a true beauty in your glimpse

Drinking straight from the vine
No supermarket could source such fresh, delicious, wine
The sun has a haze that could never be indulgent
As life has no more mystery, my release just problem solvent
The trees now making shade,
In a garden just heaven made
Two classic convertibles sat waiting in the barn
A drive up the coast when the sun hits high, and tell tales of my jealous yarns
I sometimes think back to when I lived under Queen and country
But miss nothing of what it became,
God bless the King and dear old Blighty...

Cheers 🍷

JJB

When I was a child,
Little convertibles were the car
to have;
You grew your hair long;
You walked bare foot;
Wore denim;
Big clothe bags;
Ate vegetables; and
Found yourself by
Travelling the road.