Candy Store

bang bang bang

eight o’clock am
two barefoot white kids in cut off jeans
stand at the back door
of a black family’s residence
in the quarters
change in hand for the candy store

a few minutes pass and
(we hear her before we see her)
the ‘Candy Lady’ as we called her
comes to the door dressed in what could
only be described as a muumuu only
more like a house dress if there were
such a thing

we file in and start looking
through the freezer for ice cream
sandwiches (which were our favorites but
which she sold out of the most)
homemade and handmade and for
“fo-fi cent” (as she used to say)
you couldn’t beat ‘em

she had drinks and candy bars
and ice cream in small dixie cups
and gum and cinnamon candy that turned
your spit blood red (which we took advantage
of at every opportunity) and which we bought the
most since they were only “fi cents” apiece and
we typically had fifty cents between us

that was almost thirty years ago
surely she would be long dead
the old black “Candy Lady” who dealt
candy out the back door to us kids
while her husband dealt pot and sometimes
a little cocaine out of the front to our parents

bang bang bang
I could use some candy right now

-Lewis Applequist 2009

haiku challenge answered

Hey, this is a bunch of Haikus..

October 1979

“God, he’s dead, he’s dead!”
I could hear my Aunt screaming
the day my Dad died.

A red Volkswagen
filled with drunks for the Oz trip
never made it home

This year marks thirty
thirty long years gone away
he was twenty-six

Spooky – Halloween
on October thirty-first
his birthday no more

I was barely six
but the shit had started up
and hasn’t slowed yet

Death is always here
mocking, laughing, eternal
our life so finite

-Lewis Applequist 2009

confessions of a cripple

screw this I'm broken bones

lying here with broken
toes
ankle
spirit
i remember a time when I longed to be wheelchair bound
insanity now

i thought of all the time I could
write
read
live
without having to work for anyone
only myself

but here I sit today
three
long
weeks
and all I have banged out is this four stanza piece
of self-loathing

i can hear other bikers roaring by outside my window
rumbling
freedom
givers
the machine which gave me such rapturous joy and agonizing pain
will return

-Lewis Applequist

to my friends who have gone before me

to my friends
who have gone
before me
i hope you are
there
waiting for me

even if it is just
in a conscious,
bodiless form
wait for me
i am on my
way

if it is only
blackness and
we only have our
voices
that will surely
be enough

enough to justify
this life
enough to justify
the suffering
enough to justify
having to wait

to be able to
hear your voices again
and laugh and cry
and remember the
time we had together
in THIS life

that would be enough
of an afterlife
for me
no gold streets needed
no pearly gates required
just us together

but if you happen to learn
that we move on
again
from where you are now
please,
wait for me.

-Lewis Applequist

WRITE DAMN YOU

Halloween 2008, no costume, bearded, unaware and surprised

I keep telling myself that
to be a writer requires that I
actually spend time writing
and not thinking about it.

But I will not put finger to
keyboard or pen to paper
just to get a word count
for some content hog.

Fuck that
I will not make a job
out of my last remaining
passion.

People are depending
on me working this shit job,
but it drains the life out of me,
drives me to drink.. and more.

Then you look at me in
the mirror and wonder why
I look like shit, feel like shit
and sound like shit. (I am shit)

The fact of the matter
is that I AM A WRITER.. a failing
writer who has no ambitions,
not even to write.

Someone once said I was too young
to write.. haven’t lived enough to know
love and loss, death and heartache..
I wish I could use that excuse.. I do.

When I am not writing, I live and see and know
the story keeps going on, I watch it unfold
before my eyes, hear the narrator as
he describes the scene for the readers.

Then he leans in closer,
reeking of alcohol and with
drug crazed eyes he says,
“Stop staring at yourself in the fucking mirror and WRITE DAMN YOU!”

-Lewis Applequist 2008

apartments

I miss my apartments
It’s as close as I can imagine
city life could be for a boy in
Alabama.

Now living in the ‘country’
even with neighbors next door there’s
no socializing.
I am so bored.

I miss all the friends,
the sounds, the sirens,
the shouting and hell
yes, I miss the fights.

Give me Pinecrest or
Colonial Acres any day,
you can keep your lawns
and your fucking fences.

friday nights

in my life, two people
struggle to cope with
loneliness and despair

one suffers alone
in silence
bound to another in misery

the other suffers publicly
a town drunk with a heart of gold
regularly and violently lashing out

one takes any affection
or compliment they can
needing attention, needing love

the other rejects affection
snarls at compliments
needing attention, needing love

on a friday in august
each does something
about their situation

one takes another’s embrace
in awkward silence
needed attention, needed love

the other takes a bottle and
six feet of chain and hangs himself
needed attention, needed love

friday nights in my
life are like badly
written poetry

Days of White

leader, brother, friend..
please, can you tell me
what I need to do
now?

i fear that i may
make a decision that,
(although well intentioned)
may be wrong

i trust in you to not lead
me astray, or deliver me
unto evil..
i voted for you.. in faith

i allow you to deny me my
liberties, my freedoms,
because you tell me..
it’s for my safety.. MY SAFETY!

you will not let my friend
‘fly the friendly skies’
because his name is ‘Rashad’.. but
it’s for OUR SAFETY!

i announce my intentions
to you not by intent but by
my apathy.. because of my lack
of care.. you have full control..

my apathy- lets you tap my phone
my apathy- lets you read my email
my apathy- allows Guantanamo Bay
your only concern- my apathy

my apathy is your only concern
you can entertain me but you don’t educate me
isn’t American Idol on..? Is Brad and Angelina
gonna adopt another child.. turn up the TV..

these are the Days of White..
the Dark Nights will be next

-GS

components of a dream

i’ve been the dreamer of many a
twisted dream
composed of various elements and
unrelated characters
usually mulled over on my commute to work
then forgotten

last night’s was no different in
it’s general progression
only in it’s variety of characters
and situations
i’d be afraid to hear what a psychologist
would think of my dreams

here goes in relative order:
trick-or-treating, taliban,
beheading, persian girl,
shackles, barred door,
urination, john goodman, defecation

Ok, it gets better:
motorcycle, highway, air conditioner repair,
some gay guy, my old boss Randy,
Bukowski, black hooker, cigarettes,
marijuana, pine needles, instantaneous sunrise

it all peters out here:
great day proclamation, leather jacket,
riding wheelies and the realization that I
am supposed to be at work but somehow
it just doesn’t matter now

Chirp Chirp

*chirp chirp*
hey man know anybody that’s
got something for a back ache?

*chirp chirp*
nah man. should’ve caught me earlier
you know who just got her script but
she ain’t coming off any more of ‘em

*me grumbling*
fuckin’ greedy bitch
*chirp chirp*
no shit? you sure? i’ll settle for
four fuckin’ tens.. i’m fuckin’ dyin’ here

*chirp chirp*
what was that?

*chirp chirp*
FOUR FUCK-ING TENSSSS.. ANYTHING!!

*chirp chirp*
i’ll see if I can get her.. she was out
of minutes earlier.. i’ll let you know..

*chirp chirp*
ten-four, say no more..

and he won’t. fellow pill head won’t get
you SHIT unless they are BROKE.. OUT..
or HOPING TO SCORE OFF YOU..
stay way from pills and all things
narcotic..
including me.. especially me.