(inside
cover)
©2002 by Jim
Chandler. All rights reserved and nothing included in this book may be copied
or duplicated without the written consent of the author, except for brief
passages used in reviews or similar comments.
Some of the
poems herein have previously appeared in print and online journals.
Printed in the
United States of America, 2002
Published by
Rank Stranger Press
C/O
Charles Whitley
156 Crest
Drive
Mount Olive,
NC. 28365
For more
information about Rank Stranger Press please contact the address above.
Lost in Ranger
small cracker
box room
neon flooding
through
thin curtains
outside the night
lies like
black blood
over the din of
highway noise
the rushing
mass of heathens
headed down
to eternity
nothing here but
a pretty head full
of empty thoughts
an unwise decision
to let the
big dog roll
minus one
the sea bag
gone on somewhere
down the line
bouncing on
bad macadam
toward the
big muddy crossing
Memphis hanging
on the bluff
like an
old warrior
shining with
magic fire
wonder what I'm
doing here
discharge
in my pocket
separation pay
a side trip
to Juarez behind me
coming to
in Van Horn
loaded aboard the
bus like
a side of beef
after falling
over an ashtray
in the El Paso
bus station
out cold
Hung up by
a pretty face in
a roadside diner
an invitation
a girl too sweet
to pass up
a fifth of
I. W. Harper
& good
intentions
remembering the
break
of waves
on warm beaches
the florescent swish
of a bow
cutting water
a steel-clad
Magellan
finding new worlds
to plunder
ahead the green
land of home
forests
thicker than
the focal length
of eyes
nights like fever
bottled
in bond
lost in Ranger in
that moment
never to be
found again
my picture on
a milk carton
not yet
made
Another Sunday Poem
Once again
I find inspiration
on a rain-soaked
Sunday
down South,
sitting here
cozy and snug
while the
pouring cumulus
streams up like
a white freight
train
from down beyond
the stretches of
the Galveston coast.
I seem to have
some connection
to Sundays
beyond the
scope of my
imagination,
it is a day
that has fed
my mind in
creative ways
more times
than I can recall;
strange for
a man who
makes no claims
to religious
scholarship,
nor whines
that he
knows God on
a personal level.
A small saint
living a quiet life
among rural
solitude,
I am,
one no longer driven
by the urge
to stand out
from the masses
like the buttress of
a pirate’s schooner,
ripping through
the world
with smoke and
thunder
spouting from
every breech and
orifice,
the ocean
flowing red in
my wake.
Were I given
a moment
to ponder, I
might envision
the stark nature
of
great souls
who settled
this rainy plain
where I find
myself this day,
locked in embrace
with sweet Dame Muse
and her
voluptuous
offerings,
her worthy belly
pressing the
spine of my
simple offerings,
her breath
sweet on my cheek.
I might see
the great swamp
rise like
Satan’s cesspool
from ground
plowed by
the twin tines
of Time
and Circumstance;
plowed and
packed hard by
desperate ages of
thundering hoof
beats
and the
bellies of a
billion foul
serpents
woven through
tall grasses.
A glancing back
past the edge of
the grave might show
an advance of
creaky encumbrances
filled with
meager belongings
riding on wheels
of hope,
manned by
fortitude and a lust
to know what’s
beyond
the next rise
or mountain pass,
what paradise
lies waiting with
sunny arms open wide
and trees
bent to the ground
with fruits sweet
beyond knowledge.
The tide of man
came slowly at
first,
like the first bare
tug of the moon
on the ocean,
the first time our
shiny orb slung into
its circuitous route
and
carried its
magic around
the world;
no thought that
it came from
the bed of the sea,
this perfect round
sphere pocked like
the faces
of those who
survived demon
fevers.
I have come
to believe that
all Sundays are
magic,
and more so
as we draw near
the dawn of
a new millennium,
and I have
come to believe that
all days are magic,
and that nights
are magic,
and that life itself
is magic even if
at times it is
wasted on us.
Memories of the Old
Man
I remember my grandfather
sitting still as dawn
in the prow of his old boat
a straw hat pulled low
over his eyes
a wad of Garrett’s snuff
buried under his lip
clutching his fishing rod
with the kind of patience
a kid like me found
hard to come by
once fishing Kentucky lake
near hog hollow we didn't
heed the coming clouds until
it was almost too late
the whitecaps breaking over
the sides of the small boat
the little engine chugging
we made a run for a small island
sitting green in blowing rain
in the middle of the sprawl
of rolling muddy water
an old man and woman
neither of whom could swim a lick
and a 12 year old boy
who could but not that far
the boat dragged up on the sandy bank
we found partial shelter under
a clump of heavy undergrowth
hunkered down under there drawn up
against the crack of lightning
and the howl of wind and rain
coming across the earth sideways
I remember my grandmother's old
blue eyes and how they twinkled
with excitement because granny
wasn't afraid of the devil armed
with a circle saw
the storm passed as storms do
and soon we were on our way chugging
across tossed water to the pump house
where the dike split the backwater
and big catfish lurked among the rocks
near the edge where the suction pulled through
inside the concrete building a maelstrom of
churning water filled with white bellies
of dead shad and the roar of big engines
moving water unnaturally uphill and
across the tongue of green bank
I think now that I am now older than
my grandfather was that day and I have
not yet come close to drowning one of my
grandchildren and what they have missed
because of that and what I have missed
because of the miles and time between us
my grandchildren will remember me as
a vague stranger they saw on rare occasions
an old man who wrote things and smoked too much
and sometimes laughed too loud when he drank
too much and sometimes showed them how to
do this or that or the other
I remember my grandfather as the short squat
man with the straw hat in the boat with
his beloved fishing tackle and sometimes if
the melancholy comes I recall his last minutes
lying in a hospital bed his face twisted by
the ravages of a stoke and how he gripped my hand
just minutes before he died and tried to say
it's all right son with his paralyzed lips
and a few minutes later the doctor came out and
said he's gone
a couple days later in the graveyard I could
almost hear him whisper don't talk son
the fish will hear you
Toby James
toby james lived in a
leaning shack down by
the muddy
buffalo
he'd sit with his back
against a big oak
his stone jug of shine
at his side
he'd pass it over with
a grin then take it back
always wiped the top
with a circle of dirty palm
before hitting it himself
double run white mule
that would proof 150
at least
mellow corn cooked on a
worm down on cane creek
where the water flowed cool
from springs perking the
mcnairy sands and
the law feared to tread
toby had pulled 18 years
of hard time 6 for cookin corn
& 12 for
killing a man with a
double bit axe when he
caught the swamper screwing
his 12 year old girl
killin a man's the easiest
thang in the world
toby said
if you gotta reason
don't take nothin to
take a life
it's easier'n
killin a hog and half
as bloody
they found toby face down
one sunday hung in snags
along the bank drowned dead
figured it was murder cause
his crock was in the shack and
the sheriff knew toby
never wandered that far
from his
squeeze
but an old dead drowned
ex-con ain't worth much effort
so they buried him on the county
side at the church yard
and forgot him
or tried to
The Death of Floyd Collins
hung in
the dark bowels
of kentucky earth
floyd collins
lay in his
own waste
while above him
men labored
to set him free
from the grip
of cavern rock
holding his legs
like a
carnival they gathered
under spotlights
vendors sold
sandwiches and people
came from
miles around
to be there when
they pulled
floyd free
or when
they brought
his body up
his brothers
were among those
crawling down
part of
the narrow slot
to take him
words of comfort
a small reporter
from louisville
named skeets
made many a trip
because skeets
was small and
could traverse
the rock tube
like an
earth beetle
once
in desperation
they tied
a rope
to his body to
winch him out
floyd told them
pull me out boys
even if it
rips my legs off
but when
he began screaming
they lost heart
and quit
they worked
for days
as floyd weakened
hung there
with his
head jammed
to one side
one arm above
and one arm
below him
and when
they were
close to cutting
an oblique hole
the tube
caved in
cutting off
access and
burying floyd
many hours later
when they bore
through the last
foot and found floyd
he was dead
locked there
in cold
dirt and rock
among the
few to
spend his time
in pure hell
before the
last breath left
his lips
two weeks
of it
some say the
ghost of
floyd collins still
screams out of
that hillside hole
on nights when
clouds shade
the full moon and
owls screech in
beech trees
some shiver
and remember that
cold hole
figure the
fire of hell
would be
better
much
better
The Dream
i never once
lost the dream
even if it tried
with all its might
to lose me
i still hear
its footsteps
in some dark
corner of
my mind
shuffling now
not spy
not leaping
like youth
old and dusty
but still alive
still breathing
fighting to
survive
still clinging to
that last drop
of hope
No Angst Tonight
spare me from
the place where
angst is a
state of mind
i want to feel it
implode in my soul
make things smaller
than they are
those smiling
moments
between shuffles
of the clock hands
the space between
there and here
growing
wider all the time
a gulf all
out of proportions
with
reality
nothing is real
and nothing lasts
everything is a
joke to the gods
we deceive ourselves
by believing
a response
conditioned
by need
we need only
true eyes in the
mirror
the book of self
open to NOW
the page where
we know
all things done
have spun around and
landed on start
the sky still hangs
suspended in
disbelief
the moon pukes
yellow
across black
slick night
we morph like madmen
the changing scheme
devouring landscape
in our minds
we piss magic
over bent rainbows
remember songs
warbled
with affection
sweet moves of
classic substance
beating faint
patterns
into brain grooves
naught but dark
smears
held in bulldog jaws
sweet meat that
moved
like prey unused
lost hope that
lingers
like spit in lip
corner