Thompson would say he couldn’t get into a story unless he was there. He found difficulty in going back and recreating the story through his perspective and memory. Perhaps a stream of consciousness approach made sense for some of his works and he wrote as he went along, piecing together notes scribbled on paper napkins. Deciphering his genius or completely misunderstanding it.
Author: Matthew Rodriguez
Resemblance
I saw a man who looked just like Bukowski.
He sat in an old Kia Sportage wearing a
blue shirt, waiting for his wife
to come out of the grocery
store.
I looked his way twice and smiled, baffled at the resemblance with
the fellow poet.
Just the previous night, I faintly remember I saw him in a dream, for one of his books sits on my armoire. Perhaps my dreams are now taking physical form, manifesting in conscious reality.
In my dreams, I saw who I thought was my father, sitting on the baseball stands, as I called him on a cellphone. An unknown sympathetic man picked up. I apologized, but the man did not mind and he was kind. The man sitting was not my father. He was someone else, an illusion, a message from the unconscious.
I spend a lot of time now studying things my teachers failed to teach me or I failed to learn. And running through the mountain roads I call home, envisioning my future friends and I embracing the difficulties and pain of life through training.
I now train and study to become like the Hurricane, a warrior and a scholar — to earn my picture on the wall of heroes that wait for me.
The world breaks once more, in war it destabilizes, and I just happen to be alive in this moment in history, hoping to do something worthy of some remembrance before I walk amongst my fathers “in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave may live forever.”
Duality
I exist in two planes of existence — in the world where I create worlds and in the physical.
I move more in the first than in the latter.
It is an incessant world, often at odds with “reality.”
It took forever to decipher the duality of such intrigue, that at times I still believe I am verily insane.
It is true then, that an internal fictional world is easier to control than its “real,” but absurd external counterpart.
Croupier II
Sometimes I don’t know if life is a random sequence of events or a novel carefully orchestrated by an anonymous writer
who
narrates
his story
in
the third person, and titles his
œuvre in the first.
An honest man who became a villain or a villain who needed the correct set of circumstances to emerge free of his delusion.
Still, an innocent soul was lost, and he shed a tear, a tear that fooled me for a moment,
but no…
indeed he was a villain after all,
and she
deserved better.
Alma Mater Revisited
Alma mater revisited
these hallways contained
unkempt books,
books long unread
long
un-curated.
a
library
far
from its
potential.
no
money to take care of books the government says—
shame, shame.
How could this be?
How could we allow such a thing?
Oh, please tell me why, for I know not.
In these hallways I didn’t learn much.
Mind minding other things. My time there not well used,
but that is how my story goes.
All connected somehow…
Old Town Scheming
I was out and about dealing with the whole marbete situation, listening to sick tunes about town. Everything went smooth, I needed to get a new hamper, and while at the store, an idea struck.
I should ask if they’re hiring.
Surely they need a young guy to do the heavy lifting. All the employees are ladies, so it could be helpful, I say to myself.
I don’t have a retail résumé on me though. But I do have a restaurant one. So, I remember I had to go hand in my sales card at the new pizza shop, but on my way there, there was a young woman wiping down the storefront of another joint. I stop, think about it, and then decide to ask the woman if they’re hiring.
The place looks like it caters to a younger crowd. So, maybe I can do good there since I’m still young myself, I continue to think. The woman looks younger than me, long, dark hair, and glasses.
She says they’re hiring; I ask what position.
“Waiter and kitchen,” she says.
“Ok, I’d like to apply for the waiter position. Can I leave you my résumé?”
“Sure, I’ll hand it to the manager.”
So, off I went hoping to get lucky because I’m critically low on funds.
Then I went around to take pictures to try and capture the magic of the raw nature of this town.
Old man says, “whaddaya you doing, buddy?” as I take pictures of the lake close to his house.
“I’m taking pictures for an American magazine. I’m doing an article about the town.”
“Really? Wanna interview me?”
“Well… sir,” I say. “The article is about the town itself, there’s no characters in this story, except the author, and what he experiences.”
“Oh… I see,” he says.
Ok, well that part didn’t really happen. I imagined it as I relayed this tale to the blonde while she had her lunch.
But I did drive around and took pictures while looking cool. Maybe the old guy really thought I was a journalist for a renowned American magazine.
Who knows…
The pictures I took do no justice to the real experience. Out on that bridge, especially. High above the bridge enjoying the breeze…
Fans and Thermal Waters
Thermal waters, total relaxation.
The energy, the stress.
All zapped away in 15 minutes of sweat inducing waters.
Had to walk slow up the steps to lay on the brick bench.
I could feel my heart beat all around my body
as
the relaxing tunes played in the background.
An iguana jumped from tree to tree eating
flowers.
I had not felt such relaxation in a long time, if ever.
It was almost divine. Like I could die in peace in this foreign place, and it wouldn’t matter.
We became lost in the banana plantation.
The fault of unreliable technology; a chance to test navigation skills.
Through the field of giant, white fans we went, to end up lost again searching for a beach.
What we found instead was a mangrove restoration project, and a man there who seemed to be done flying his drone.
Another adventure, another destination experienced.
things Begin to Unfold
It is an honor to see you are remembered and held in such high esteem around these parts.
The lady you helped in your FEMA days
remembered you.
The nice old man at the guard tower too,
even my new buddy remembered you.
I see myself as you or as your successor.
The energies in this dimension feel like so.
I, son, have become like my father.
To accomplish what? I still am unsure,
but
things begin to unfold and make sense
little by
Little.
Poetry
Life doesn’t change immediately if at all,
Not all problems have to be solved now,
some things are
just
meant to be
poetry…
Unpurposed Structures, Unattended Trees
I walked the streets of the Northern town that saw me open my eyes for the first time by
the waves
plagued by abandoned buildings.
The blue prison that could be a museum, I saw.
The same prison where a fellow writer I met was harbored many years ago
for taking part in a fight for freedom;
unpurposed structures–
what a waste.
To the highlands where I was raised, I returned to marvel
at the road that used to be paved by pink flowers in the
Spring,
but even
unattended trees
can be taken over by parasites.