Richard: In His Own Words: 2017

By: Contributor
3 July, 2017

 

(Editor’s Note: Richard finished these two stories, a kind of valedictory and an epilogue, a farewell to friends and comment on the aftermath in early 2017. He never lost his sense of humor.)

 

 

The Gateways of Oblivion

It has been a good run!

Sometimes we think we deserve another season to slide—who do you think you are? Special—your shit don’t stink?

So check out your past numbers. Mind the Truth—don’t put flowers on your memories.

A jive mother jumper who tries to pull a gypsy switch does not have a reflection in the mirror.

When you’re down to the seeds and stems and the wick on your glower is shaking low maybe your last link has been reached and your free flower balloons are floating away into that vast vermillion sky.

Just when you’re pouting about your Righteous pain and you are certain someone is punking out on your score. The light of time floats in and makes you pick up that you have no kick coming and that dues are not for sale to a hustler.

Tell me truly—do you really know every bartender and street chicken on the flying floor? Or perhaps there are tickets to run in the burning evening light—I’d go for the old time juke box stroll because it’s everlasting.

To some there is a very narrow line between humor and ignorance. Neither do they know the difference between a sucker and a friend—weird huh? Perhaps in anger I am spelling about myself but I am a vato and have no reason to lie.

We all pay dues eventually. But mine are superior to yours in the rain. Or?
I once wrote:

The Destiny that guides you is a long and piercing lance
That’s shining like the good luck charm
That’s dangling from the mirror
as in a Trance.
.

Parable

God and the Devil Fighting over Me

Quarrel

God: I ain’t taking this motherfucker, give my place a bad name.

Devil: Bad name? You voted for Hitler and now voted for the Donald and have been known to enjoy Michael Jackson’s music—a flaming faggot child molester fairy playing in your heavenly room.

Remember the jive number we had when you said Heaven was full and you didn’t know what he was—White-Black-Man-Woman and you wanted to slide this puke on me. I didn’t know either—My Hell was cleans this vomit would darken my place.

What would my clients think?

Atilla, Nappy, Genghis, Hitler and other vomits–they might clicking go the wrong way.
Cats and chicks were getting fierce on my case. Judas was beside himself—Catherine of Rainford-by-the-Sea threw a silver stiletto at my head right between my horns—you Bastard.

God: So am I a bastard—with me an accident of birth—But you Sir: are a self-made man.

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