Trouble Comes to Dry Gulch

• In response to the 4th prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I introduce you to my imaginary childhood friend. In the heart of a terrified young boy, he was more than real…




Trouble Comes to Dry Gulch

•

you were my truest friend
my steady rock of safety
my captain of escape
you were always there

the amazing man of magic
the hero of the weak
defender of the helpless
my always gentle friend

when the footsteps in the hall
woke me in the night
I would feel you tug my hand
and under we would go

through the secret passage
you kept beneath my bed
to the waiting viking ships
and off to fight the dragons

in the land of snow and castles
carved from clear blue ice
in our robes of fur
we struck with swords of gold

you were very brave
in the face of fear
I knew you would appear
never laughing at my tears

when the grating metal rasp
of door latch in the dark
would bolt me from my sleep
you would have the horses ready

we would thunder off to dry gulch
to wrangle up our posse
save the townfolk from the bad guys
and return when all was calm

you were very swift
in a snap you would arrive
in time to get me out alive
helping me survive

below the ocean we would dive
in your crystal submarine
down to the coral world
marveling at the creatures

we would leave the sub
to swim among the wonders
to dart and spin and float
far from pain and worry

you were very smart
my midnight flight arranger
to rocket us from danger
far from the evil stranger

we would soar to venus
in your silver ship
or to some distant star
and do battle with space monsters

and when they all were slain
we would fly the milky way
circle all the planets
thankful to be weightless

no matter how afraid
I knew that you would find me
knew you’d never judge me
I knew how much you loved me

knew you’d have me back by day break
with the dark night far behind us
and the warmth of welcomed sun
would once again embrace us

the midnight footsteps now are quiet
the ships and rockets sailed away
no more trouble comes to dry gulch
the crystal sub now long in dry dock

I’m not sure I ever thanked you
perhaps took your love for granted
without you I’d never have made it
I never will forget you

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


The Book(s)

Two books that changed everything for me — “On The Road” by Jack Kerouac,

and “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test” by Tom Wolfe.

I was a disenchanted-college-student-rock-musician and had just been awakened by the ’67 Summer of Love, when I came upon both of these books in the Spring of 1968 in a bookstore in Clifton, Ohio, just down from the Ludlow Garage, where my band, Stone Fox, had just opened for the Allman Brothers and Santana.

These books fueled my frustration with “the system”, sparked my wanderlust, and eventually found me and my three best friends, astride internal combustion iron horses, young men heading west — and thus began the rest of my life.

What these books represented was not a map for the rest of my life, I’m well beyond that angst. Rather, they’re important to me because they were the catalyst that first ignited my genuine independent thought, and empowered me to act on that thinking.

Following here is a poem I wrote which reflects, quite well, where my head was during that period. You can also click on the highlighted passage young men heading west in the previous paragraph to read a poem I wrote about the motorcycle journey.

 

Bohemian Nightfall

•

when night fell on bohemia
the streets were set ablaze
in black light
in strobe light

it was tie-dyed psychedelia
when night fell on bohemia

jack and neal were on the road
ridin’ with the fire-whores
of angst and indignation
like combustin’ carnal fireballs
when night fell on bohemia

allen was howlin’
pal’n with corso
and long’n for peter

hunter, groin deep
in the brain-drug flesh festival
…hunter was fearful
and loathing it all
when night fell on bohemia

bill, stark naked
was lunchin’ with the devil
jelly-rollin’ in a hell fire
when night fell on bohemia

gary headed for cold mountain
to watch it all from sourdough
electric bob went subterranean

me – stung by disenchantment
the swollen outlaw bastard
coming fast
hard as holy hell
cresting and crashing in
just as night fell on Bohemia

I was on my way
howling mad
and mind-expanded
in a rolling demon’s fire,
lighting the night
dancing with beelzebub
raving and blazing
hormone’d-hungry
lusting and longing to gorge
every forbidden morsel and crumb –

the smorgasborgadelic mindfeast

when night fell on bohemia
ken and tim
gathered up the faithful
on the magic bus
and stole off with the future

like pranksters

ever further

• • •
rob kistner © 2008

…this post was inspired by sunday scribblings