Hickory McCracken Chronicles:

 Round III:

Tomorrow could be the day. Ole’ Pops knew. Book that flight and head back to a place where he had felt more alive than in any boxing ring. Re-introduce himself, to the family, to the feelings, to the creaking pines, to the burning orange sunset glow of a past that just wouldn’t let go.

But, like his reflexes, he was too slow…his past had already arrived in Brooklyn.

“I heard you got concussion issues…heard your mind is as beat up as your rusty old Chevy. Is that what it feels like to be absent for thirty four years?”

“Hickory?,” his voice cracking and fading like a rusty whisper..
Tears started to well up in his eyes as the realization became more visceral, more complete.

Hickory stood there in the dusty shadows, quiet and placid, waiting for this moment, his eyes burning with a vulnerable rage….

“Well you gonna get that Scotch or we gonna stand here like a couple’a sixth avenue bums?”

Ole’ Pops stood there in the tension. Like two fighters staring each other down while the ring announcer barks out the statistics of each to a restless, waiting crowd. Only this was a new fight, one that was beyond the stick-and-move purview Pops had spent his post-career time teaching in the old Carney Boxing Club.

“I’ve..I’ve been off the sauce for a couple years now so I got nothing in the pantry but ginger ale and cranberry juice…but ah, (swallowing hard)…but…maybe we could go to the One Lucky and I’ll ah, I’ll buy us a round or two,” he said shakily.

The One Lucky was one of those places lodged in the heart of Brooklyn like a salty chunk of Mortadella clogging up an artery amongst the twisted greasy streets of a place that lives in both real history and cinematic fiction.

“I just came from there…it’s the only place around here that knows how to make a proper meat ball sandwich,” Hickory replied.

“Well we can go anywhere..I mean..It’s good to see you…maybe we could just go somewhere and talk for a bit. Y’know… I’m not the man I used to be…I…well let’s go and knock a few back.”

“You…ok with that?” Pops asked.

“You have some explaining to do,” Hickory replied, “alot of it…and I hope you don’t think a few watery draughts are gonna put it all to bed.”

Pops looked down at the floor in a hazy confusion, sadness and frustration. There’s no reason Hickory needed to come back. Pops knew. He had learned how to fight on his own, in a Montreal gym, with Pops’ genes born into his mind, hands and reflexes. He knew of him. He recognized his lover in his son’s eyes. He felt the room shifting and spinning and his heart beating hard, the ringing in his ears got real loud and Pops’ balance started to go. He reached for a chair but it fell and he hit the floor like a ton of lead. There was the music again…the music she used to play…loud now in his mind…like a dream.

Hickory had reached to catch him but was too slow.

“Fuck! You dumb shit Dad…Dad!?” Hickory was as worried as he was angry. He reached for his phone and called an ambulance.

The Hickory McCracken Chronicles: Chapter 1: "Bring it all back to me"

Old Dog Shipman, Manny Weinberg, yah, now these were names old’ Hickory McCracken knew and knew well. I’ve written about him before, McCracken was a brawler, a bruiser, a bouncer and last I had heard he was working as a debt collector in Montreal somewhere. This was back in the late 80s, early 90s when I was coming into the prime of my teen years and McCracken was probably about early 20s. He has making money hand over fist, quite literally, in bare knuckled boxing competitions that were popping up “underground” in old Montreal and Toronto. He was a knock out master.  They say he had only trained with a boxing club for a couple years when he was a kid and never did much actual sparring. He preferred to “get paid if he was gonna get hit.”  Old Hick’ fell off the grid soon after the mid 90s and I hadn’t put money on one of his fights since I was a young man. That’s why it’s kind of strange that one night, down at the One Lucky tavern; I had a most unusual altercation. 

The One Lucky, immortalized in the stories by The Square Corner, had been my haunt for a few years now. I had been on the wagon for about 6 years, but since my wife Benita had divorced me, took my daughter Milly, and returned to Columbia a couple years ago, I started drinking and drinking hard. Who am I you ask? I’m just a writer. An ethnographer by trade I guess, getting paid to observe the human condition, but for a short while, I covered the local boxing scene for a small sports paper, of which paid me absolute shit, but it kept me out of bars and groceries in the cupboard. Anyway, Hickory McCracken was a major headline for me. Nobody threw the haymakers with more intensity and precision than this guy - no one that I knew of in my short stint as a boxing writer. I’d spent countless hazy evenings down at the One Lucky ripping fight tales and pulling taps with the likes of Terry Cooper, Basil Fontaine and hell, even Bert Sugar used to belly up to the bar some evenings. The One Lucky was a dive, but a colourful one. It probably had the most character out of all the bars in one city. One strange night, I was sitting on my usual stool but the place was practically empty, save for “Beer Mugs” Moran toweling off high ball glasses and an old Asian guy that basically slept through the day in his booth at the back side of the tavern. I was shit faced. I do remember however, going back and forth with Moran about a) when the actual opening hours were for the bar and b) UFOs. Since I had more time on my hands these days, divorced and laid off from my paper job, I’d become a bit of a tin foil hat conspiracy connoisseur.  I remember shouting something about an FBI “alien” experiment near Roswell, New Mexico and Mugs laughing at me calling me “one of those people” which seemed to really eat away at me.

“You believe in that shit?” Mugs would say before a chuckle. “I didn’t say I’m an advocate for every story out there, I’m just saying it’s possible!” I’d reply in slurred certainty with a tinge of drunken annoyance.

“I believe in them, I saw one myself,” came a booming response from a dark table far at the back by the pool tables. 

Now I’d heard that voice before, it was deep, raspy and self-assured.  A voice from my past. This was a voice that seemed to have an easy gait, for a voice, much like the saunter and slow stroll of a weathered athlete. I immediately sobered up a couple notches. I slowly looked back into the dank, smoky air of the One Lucky and saw a hulking silhouette underneath the neon Miller High Life sign. I felt my hands start to tremble a bit. My balls recede deep into my scrotum. It was the one and only. I knew. I just prayed he wouldn’t remember me or at least anything negative I had written about him years ago. Oh God, how I prayed.

still empty

still empty

nothing gonna fill it up

stay busy 

red wine in your coffee cup

dog mom in a business suit

fuck boy ripped, rich and rude

look busy

power class and a squatter ass

why your hands shake

why you lie awake

vegan cake and an adderall

take no shit 

walking tall

you look like shit 

why you feel so small

you know what up

valium in your bath tub 

ritalin

begin again 

still empty

he not gonna fill it up

still empty

she not gonna fill it up

why your body shake

why your friends so fake

credit card, magic wand

get something nice for the front lawn

soul ache from dusk till dawn

desperate prayer to the great beyond

what you hustling for already gone

surrogate

a motivational quote,
a sales funnel,
a scripted action, reaction, interaction,
a parody of “style,"
an interpretation of “fashion,”
the trend of empathy,
the trend of sympathy,
a glimpse into a simulation,
a digital "reality,"
of how it could be,
isn’t that what you want?
beards, craft beer and hipster shoes,
opinionated pukes and social media spooge, 
ultra-right pricks, ultra-left cunts,
misogynist punks, misandric thugs, 
power shifts like hands on a clock,
"honey, can you pass me the knife so I can cut off my cock?"
bored, lost, horny old fucks,
built on the arrogant platitudes of youth,
trendy tattoos and piercings,
“oh my god, I love your earrings!”
let’s settle down,
let’s cut the shit,
let’s find a “norm,"
like a long term commitment,
a tract home and a DIY divorce kit,
a community of support,
the ever growing church of alcoholic numbing,
escape those empty feelings that keep on coming,
a glimpse into a simulation,
a surrogate self,
escape those empty feelings that come haunting,
y’know,
the way you could be,
isn’t that what you lay awake wanting?

van Gogh's final shot at the big time

these dirty roads lead nowhere,

there’s really nothing out here,

save for a tear in the eye,

and a rough ride,

just dead ends and pot holes,

tired, salt-stained metal,

creaking with the weight of day,

no ultimate direction,

I take small pieces of pleasure from the platter of pain,

postponing what I know is coming,

and no it’s not "my shot,"

and no, no amount of social media can save me,

(that black hole into our collective mental illness),

the universe doesn’t care about our frustration,

or the level of consciousness on which we operate,

the false modesty,

the uncanny ability to feign humility while subtly downplaying the accomplishments of others,

or pretend tolerance while criticizing the opinions of others,

c’mon now,

are you sitting by the mailbox?

smoking your last Indigenous cigarette?

waiting for glory? 

what’s glory?

when is glory?

let’s get serious,

shut up and work,

with luck or without,

because it’s who you are,

drag your stone,

like everyone else,

some babies get hit by missile shrapnel,

bodies burned and limbs torn,

some babies die before they're born,

are you better?

life is a dirty sidewalk,

a lonely weekend,

a toothache,

a line of urinals filled with the tepid piss of a thousand drunk business men,

a disgraced politician,

an old man undressed,

Violette Morris’ last country drive,

van Gogh's bullet to the chest,

am I any better?

waitress

take the same chords,
for your generation,
I've played them all in my time,
if you want, 
put your fingers like so,
and I'll show you how to find the tune,
maybe a little too much too soon?
a damper on your youthful hustle,
your limitless new day,
rainbow blow jobs,
dick pics, 
layered with dream pop soufflé,
it gets hard soon love,
it gets messy and noisy,
and smells like everyone who's been here before,
I recommend protecting your trusting heart,
cause no one is gonna show you how,
I have some suggestions,
but I'll mind my own old business,
plus, the waitress will take our order now.

one in the hopper

I live in a flesh house,
a mind with walls made of tissue and bone,
fuelled by electricity and blood,
I eat from mother earth,
I suckle from the teat of Gaia,
I wander the halls of infinity,
stepping gingerly across the glass floor of inconsolable despair,
I'm just a peasant,
too pedestrian for your equestrian tastes,
I love your simple epistemology,
it's really just a horny little eschatology,
it's a conversation that ends as stale as it begins,
it's ok though,
because as we age, 
we are slipping into freedom, 
which is just another word for emptiness,
and emptiness is just another word for loneliness,
and loneliness is just another word for the freedom to be,
and there's not much time for you and me,
because, you see, a lifetime is relative to eternity.

sugarbush

can I come into your sugarbush?
so dark and deep,
where the sap runs sticky and sweet,
where the wind breathes life into my tired lungs,
and the sun slices through your trees,
and bounces light off the trembling leaves,
like a giant maple cutting into the sky,
I can feel your power,
your sanctuary,
my rejuvenation 
my salvation,
and the immanence of your love,
let's go deep into your sugarbush,
swallow me into your cosmic night,
and let me sleep within you,
until I wake up baptized and reborn,
wrap me in your sacred arms,
until I forget what I know,
let me come into your sugarbush,
so we can labour until the bad feelings go,
to where we collapse the ego,
and your syrup mixes with my snow. 

the last of my bad habits

I've got a window,
inside my mind,
I cracked it open,
so I could take my time,

I feel helpless,
when I look into the sky,
troubleshoot the future,
why do I even try?
on this smouldering star,
I'm just a frozen fly,

friendship is just the distance,
between how we feel and how much we try,
the last of my bad habits,
will never really die,

but I've got a window,
inside my mind,
now I keep it open,
so I can take my time.

dasein

a vast emptiness permeates my consciousness,
rain pounds the garbage and the dirt,
my pulse beats heavily,
my muscles convulse and cramp,
my body shakes in the midnight hour,
my mind stabs fear into my heart,
my thoughts flow like a polluted river,
sending torrents of darkness into my twisting, aching bowels,
my dreams are dark corridors with wicked storms battering the windows,
my power is gone,
my hope has faded,
I feel I am standing on the crumbling edge of a shifting universe,
I am a rogue cell giving life to disease and destruction,
I am a bug...

can you hear my lamentation?

are you there?

is someone there?

am I alone?

how can I know you if you have left me?

how can I love you when you won't speak to me? 

a prayer of simplicity to a shifting universe,
falls from my quivering lips,
and blood spoiled by hatred,
drips from my fractured and restless body,
send me an angel of hope,
send me an angel of peace,
have mercy of this rogue cell wreaking disease and destruction....
have mercy on this bug...

for there is nowhere to go,
there is nothing to do,
we are who we are only through the fullness of being.

--------------------------------------------------------------
in the quiet stillness, 
a baby breathes gently,
and awakens,
in the light.






=====================================================================
this poem is dedicated to my friends who recently lost their business to fire. 

they can't help you now

love,
a twisted labyrinth,
a heavily wooded web of darkness,
emotions helplessly oscillate,
between desire and need,
between attraction and fear,
between what I have and what I've lost,
alone-ness and time,
stirs the deepest hunger,
creates an unquenchable thirst,
an unrelenting ache,
the limitless depths of this,
burning,
gnawing,
despair,

it is something in the Self...

an emptiness,
a black hole,
a void,

that cannot be filled,
how ever vainly we try,
to medicate,
to hold another,
to shun another,
to kill the "other,"
to pray to the vacant heavens,

but a screaming sadness,
creates a torrent of frozen anger,

a will...

to exist,
a dying to live,

the courage to be,
to co-exist with the lack,
the courage to be,
in the face of the void,

it defines me,
allows me to reach with the senses,
transcend the paralyzing pain,
the disorienting pleasure,

to become,
for just a fraction of infinity,

someone unequivocal. 

tomato can

the poverty of the heart,
writhes like a restless fetus,
twisting all around in anxiety and nausea,
feeling through the city night,
like a blind man,
in a tunnel of darkness and metal,
pain, the oldest friend,
was there at the beginning,
will be there at the end,
aching on the surface,
aching in the depths,
aching in the body, mind and soul,
calcified knuckles,
detached retina,
nasal fracturing,
slight limp,
half numb left hand,
and a bum knee,
a tuna sandwich and a hearing aid,
long nights and lonely dreams,
a shit love life,
but it's the only life he's got,
and he was never surprised what he could do alone,
just out of sheer willpower,

now he trains younger hearts,
eyeing the struggle,
from student to teacher,
from novice to master,
if success never came to him,
skills were gained,
how to handle failure,
how to manage the sting,
with the restraint and patience,
of a veteran of the ring,

somewhere in the nexus between time and meaning
the heart explodes,
like a spiritual sneeze,
just a gnarled figure under the lamplight,
shadowboxing the breeze.

baseball sun

a Goliath of a world,
a David of a soul,
born to kill and whither,
born to love and grow,

one must be nothing,
for one to be everything,
and when you are everything, 
you will know that it is nothing,





God is everything,
God is nothing,
God is both,
God is neither

sometimes I'm many,
sometimes I'm one,
sometimes I've gone beyond,
orbiting a baseball sun,

the plate is our life,
we stand alone,
did you know?
we will be alone when we go,

so stand relaxed at the plate,
while we orbit the baseball sun,
when you relax you get hits,
you might just get a home run.

dust in the heater

steam cloaks the vicious river,
purposely raging as though the flow was in it's nature,
frigid black water,
beats and splits the ice,
ripping through the open dam,
to swallow the dirty city snow,
temperature drops,
and the pulse slows,
under the lights of the bridge,
lovers and dreamers,
holding hands,
beautiful faces kiss beautiful faces,
lovers and dreamers,
offering us a bond,
through our common ideologies,
of love, war and terror,
a community for the rest,
alleviating the anxiety of death,
my ideology is the blues,
and "the blues is just catastrophe lyrically expressed,"

a poet sits at the bar,
unfurling rhymes,
about the frozen land and sea,
half past a waitress's ass,
a thought occurs to me,

life is but a thin sheet of ice,
resting on the ocean of infinity.












 

heavy petting

in the mind,
hold the tension between positive and negative,
then step outside of both,
a trick of the Stoics,
whether unloving,
or unloved,
disappointed and lonely,
fulfilled and together,
disappointed and together,
fulfilled and lonely,
I wish I could see as clearly as you,
with impossible clarity,
or understand as easy as you,
with impossible simplicity,
instead I awkwardly wade through the grass,
and stumble through the woods,
looking for some product,
to fill up my time,
like the shoppers in line,
at Costco,
but really looking for meaning,
some kind of deep-hearted-meaning,
struggling to meet it,
in every little touch,
in every little sound,
in every little taste.

before we are just skeletons

cottage sun blasts overhead,
a cool wind behind,
I am standing on the riverbed,
casting out my line,

maybe get a bite from another cold summer,
maybe get a bite from a lost love,
sink down deep to the bottom,
it's trial by fire,
no salvation from above,
gotta remember when I'm back in the city,
when I'm lost between buildings without art,
when the roads of my life are falling apart,

the future is blasting overhead,
there's billions of years behind,
we are are standing on a riverbed,
casting out our lines.

pour your heart out

economists call it "risky wife-seeking behaviour,"
it affects the "real exchange rate,"
it's unproductive,
the alcohol,
the drugs,
the gambling,
living on the outskirts,
with the unloved,
the un-matched,
they say the government will open up some dating sites,
so the violence will decrease,
savings will increase,
and shit will stabilize,

but how do you pour your heart out,
when you can't trust love?

when some just have the labour of the day,
the light of the sun,
bringing the joyless traffic of the mind,
cluttered and hoarded,
the acidic wash of sycophants,
the bitterness of ambition,
the after burn of fading youthful illusions,
and the howling hounds of time?

but how do you pour your heart out,
when it's always coming apart?

should I try to hurt the world back by holding back my art?
after all, psychologists say "women nurture, men self-destruct,"
still, why wait around for a sloppy kiss from lady luck?
why try to hurt the world back when the world doesn't give a fuck?

tube TV

for what it's worth,
and it ain't worth much,
trying to survive,
a body determined by uncertainty,
and bound by time,
I've only known one side of the thin red line,

some are starting out,
some are halfway done,
some are getting towards the end,
some never got started,
some got stuck part way through,
and some would like to start again,

take a moment of pause,

loosen the chains of the mind,

and feel the warm summer rain,

this is where I sit to die,
where I close my eyes,
and let loose the body/mind,
watch the flow,
and let it go,
without the eyes,
and be present,
outside time,

but then I'll come back,
to where I choose to live,
sitting out here behind the garbage,
watching a tube TV,

where they play for a cup,
a cup for the world,
a cup for you,
share a cup with me,
on this side of the line,

for what it's worth,
and it ain't worth much,
but what I have is yours,
and what I give is mine.



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