The Poisoned Ink Well

Friday, October 04, 2002

I had a difficult time this summer. I found out that my son's father had passed away at the young age of 33. He died in 1994 and no one knew how to get in touch with us. These next pieces are just my attempt to make some sense out of everything that happened. Please bear with me. I know it needs some work. The first one is one I wrote after I found out he had died and the following is about my trip with my son to his hometown to meet the family and visit his grave. More will follow. I need to get this out. I have some poetry that he wrote (Ric) as well and I will publish it on following days. He was a talented poet, songwriter, singer and bottle washer. This is all I can do for him. (with love)

To Rick

I should have married you that day.
We broke down on the way to Vegas in Victorville, California.
To me it was a sign
that things might go
wrong and not be right.
And years later it never was
meant to be
and it is now
something that never happened.

Years separate
miles of pavement in hot July sun
baking the desert
and gentle rolling hills rising from interstate overpasses.

The green charger
mint car
over heated
and stopped us
That night we made love
on the roof
of an old building
On Ave E in
San Bernardino.
The next day we sat on the steps and watched
the Thunderbirds roar overhead.
Nights later, we lay in the sand in the high desert
And watched falling stars.

We had a son and drifted apart.

Years went by.

Alone in layers of abandoned clothing
You wore yourself for the last time
Next to the tracks
With a bunch of vagrants,
In a lonely hospital room
Where know one knew you.

Mel for R. Zetzer/Rock and Roll Ric (02-20-2002)

Thoughts on the trip to Port Clinton.

Ed and I rode the Jet express from Port Clinton to Put-n-Bay as the boat sliced across the waters and I stared at the horizon alternating with the wake of the boat on Lake Erie, the sun was in my eyes and the wind blew my hair beating against my cheeks in a wild pattern, Ed, tapped me on the shoulder and hugged me, before darting up the stairs to talk to a pretty redheaded girl of sixteen, I looked back at the water and the houses that lined the banks of the tiny islands as we sped past, I felt the spray of the water and looked at the faint traces of the Canadian shore and it occurred to me how lucky I was to be there. That if I had never had a ‘Ric’ in my life that I would not have a laughing teenage son one deck above me, that I never would have ridden a ferry, or stared at the blue waters of Lake Erie; the wind continued to blow my hair in a carefree way and I talked the sky, and the lake, and the wake of the boat, and the seagulls trailing along, and the houses that lined the shores, and boats docked in the harbor. I spoke to the sky and the spirit that was Ric and I said, "Thank You, thank you so much for giving me all of this beauty and this healthy son and the chance to be here on your turf" and then I knew that it was all meant to be, it was so obvious, that I almost missed it. God is easy to see, so easy that sometimes we overlook the blessings that are abundant in our lives. My trek, my journey, my visit, my pilgrimage to Port Clinton to Lake
Erie. It was all there and so was he. I love you Ric. I love you Ed and I will always love you both, always.

another version



My first real attempt at poetry (Ginsberg liked this one) from years back (1992) from my workshop experience at LSU with Andrei and the gang. (nice people) I have been doing alot of soul searching since then.

Your Dick

Your dick was so fine.
Your dick was circumcised.
Your dick was a gun without a holster.
Your dick had a Star of David painted on the end.
Your dick was Jewish.
Your dick was a fine old
Cadillac surrounded by today’s subcompacts.
Your dick was a collector’s item.
Your dick was an Edsel.
Your dick.

I brushed your dick off my teeth this morning
puckering as I tasted your lemon.
I spit your dick down my drain
frothy and white with my toothpaste.
I washed your dick off the insides off my thighs.
Your dick was still sticky in my jeans.
Your dick was on my hand towel in my bathroom.
Your dick was on my bathroom rug.
I spent all my quarters for laundry money
just trying to wash away your dick.

I tried to replace your dick on my clit.
I licked my fingers while masturbating,
and I still tasted you guessed it
Your dick.

I douched and then your dick tasted like vinegar on my fingers.

I washed and washed my hands
trying to wash away the smell of your dick.
I will not be making meatloaf tonight.

Your dick is shaped like my Christmas tree
thick at the bottom with a star on the top.
I decorated your dick with Christmas balls.

what do I need with penis envy?
everything in my house is your dick.

Your dick is my neighbor
I only say hi to on odd occasions.
Your dick left my building without telling me.
Your dick still owes me rent.
Your goddamned dick.

Your dick was crafty your dick knew my score.
Your dick wasn't a virgin.
Your dick was the key to my backdoor.
Your dick.
Your dick.
Your dick.
Your goddamned dick.


First Post
A Stoner thought at 10 PM on a Friday (hiccupp) Night.

I guess one of my goals in writing is to be brutally honest and truthful even at my own expense. I want to expose every raw emotion and human frailty, mostly my own. If the reader laughs when perhaps they feel they shouldn’t then my answer would be an affirmative. Go for it. I’m smiling at the ignorance of living in the here and now and that’s the way it should be. If someone becomes offended then I think they should be. Hate me, revile me, whatever, but understand my primary concern is to push the First Amendment as hard as I can. To bang at it as though it were a large stone tablet seemingly oblivious to the pounding of my furious tiny fist. Like a door meant only for the elite, but open to us all with an awareness that any of us can be knocked over with the flick of some twit's wrist as an obvious irritant, an inflamed pulsing vein on the ass of the Supreme Court, not even important enough to be considered, merely another screaming voice in the cacophony with all the joy and pleasure (I get off on this. I’m weird) and as rambunctious as I can still muster. A crowd scene, if you will, in the privacy of my own room, hitting on flies and stomping on roaches as I write. I do it because I can and because I am curious and want to see how far I can take it within my own set of strictures and morals, yet never backing away from what I see to be real even if its not a part of the cultural mores of the day. Even if you hate me then I’ve had some effect and achieved some measure of promoting our baser primal urges that take us finally back to what it is to be human.