Rug


At one point I used to write what I’ve always called ‘Maverick Poetry.” I learned later it is better known as ‘free-verse.’ However ‘maverick’ sound so much more manly.

This afternoon, I awoke with a Kerouac quote swimming between my ears. Within ten-minutes I had ‘Rug,’ penciled out.

“If you own a rug,” Jack Kerouac wrote, “You own too much.”
Not a Kerouac fan? Me either.
But I am partial to hardwood floors.
No — I like Chuck. Charles Bukowski.
Institutionally educated, self taught, self-destroying.
Rough around the edges, raw where I ain’t.
Growing up – it was dinner at the table –  television dessert:
Hee-Haw, Disney, Roller Derby Queens.
Cartoons were for Saturday’s only.
Three channels and a midnight sign-offs.
Losing my innocence along the way
A criminal, without criminal intent. Childhood rebellion.
Whippings with a self-found switch, if not — the razor-strop.
Rotory phones and party lines, when operators really did exist.
There were school times and bed times. Don’t dare miss either.
One began with a pledge, the other ended on a prayer.
A Child of God, riding in pickup beds, playing in dirt, and pump action BB guns,
Riding bicycles without helmets, playing baseball the same way too.
Childhood treasures of a simple life. Long days in the sun and “Don’t forget your hat!”
Recording the Top-40 radio station. Cassettes filled with my favorite tunes.
And playing in the creek, skinny-dipping when I thought: “No one’s looking.”
Jus’ think – How many no one’s there are in the world?
Yes, a Child of God, if only a misguided child.
Now, hot coffee on cold winter morns,
Ripe tomatoes, fresh from the Summer’s garden.
So forget what others might tell you,
Keep walking, take your fill, jus’ leave the rest.
Remember a knapsack will crush, if it’s too heavy.
The older stuff last longer – at least in memory.
Suddenly though, I’m aware – I’m ‘older stuff.’
Remember to write it all down.
Forget about the rug.

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