Poem of Quotes Members

Dickie and the Mystic Hick

Dickie Waynes complains most days
of the ache in his back and
the cracking sounds his joints make
when he bends to tie the laces of his boots
and checks to make sure his shirt's on straight
and his belt's not loose.
He takes the time to align the pattern
of the cloth so the pretty red stitching
flatters his figure and triggers his battered posture
to foster a little more dignity
than what he already has to offer.

He used to be a softer sort of man,
sentimental and gentle,
with a can-do attitude and
an elemental grace that placed him
at the top of the latitude race-
he was always highbrow society
mixed with small town charm,
the kind that could disarm you with a smile
while still maintaining a razor-sharp edge
that threatened harm if you mis-stepped.

Dickie Waynes used to be dangerous.

But he aged, as we all do,
and though he still pulls on his boots
one at a time, the way he used to,
he does it now with the huffing and puffing
that comes with stuffing one's feet
into shoes that don't quite meet standard regulation
while reaching around a gut that appeared,
he says, out of thin air
without so much as a warning flare.

It's a sad sight to see him there,
bent over double in his favorite chair,
troubling himself to get past
what is obviously a very large spare tire
while his favorite pair of shoes conspires against him,
all in the name of fashion.
It's pointless actions like this that get his
heart crashin' in his chest like a snare drum,
but he hungers to be young and so he
thunders through his morning routine
thinking maybe some day, if he's lucky,
he'll turn back the clock
to walk and talk twenty again.

But then, this isn't about the life and times
of Dickie Waynes;
this is about the day he died
and how he changed
into river bones and mud-slicked stones
frozen at the bottom of the Bucket.

Simply put, he ****ed it.

See, Dickie was the bastard
plastered against the hearts
of quite a few smart young women.
Just the thought of all those pretty girls
caught on the sharp end of his smile
got him grinnin'
and he would tell whoever would listen
about his kissin' days.
-which turned out to be a big mistake.

Once upon a drunken night
he got to saying things he shouldn't have
to a father who just about kicked his ass;
the man's sleight of hand landed Dickie
on his back with the black cracked pavement
sharply demanding blood as payment for defacement.

After Dickie had raised hell and then
learned how to take it,
he got up and stumbled,
fumbled for his car keys while
muttering obscenities
but soon gave up and tumbled into
dry brush outside the bar
to empty his stomach with the finesse
of a man who can't even stand,
let alone handle the artful stance
of retching on all fours in a man-made forest.
(Paid for and planted by the well-built establishment
which served him the liquor that ravished his tongue
and bore this blunder.)

Under October's watchful gaze
he paid respect to Gods unnamed
and blamed his social failure on
society's painful decay combined with
a lack of propriety in commonplace men.

After all, who would be offended
by a harmless little joke about
upending and bending one lithe girl...
Spending enough time to make her
throat burn and her toes curl...

Never mind that the little churl
was the only daughter of a man
from a hotter climate
with a fiery temper brighter than that of
the finest miser the valley calls its own.

That's no excuse for a grown man
to sneak up on a drunk in the back alley
of the Running Iron Bar and Saloon,
sucker punch the chump, then leave him
to chew on his teeth by the streets
with only dumpster flies and the night sky
as company,

and comfort.

So Dickie, after throwing his opinions into the dirt,
wiped the sick off his lips and the hurt off his face
and thirsted for a little taste of payback.
But first he had to tackle the monumental task
of getting his ass back home in one piece
when he wasn't even sober enough to hold his keys,
so he wandered to the street and thrust out his fist,
thumb in the wind, hoping someone
would take pity on him.

He was lucky enough to hitch a ride
from a decent guy in a pickup truck
who offered to drive him as far up as the Cachagua line.
Dickie didn't mind and thanked him kindly,
grateful to be out of the cold for the time being
as they made their way up the windy road
out towards where the boondock population
built their homes.

(The sticks was a lonely place to live,
with steep drops off rocky cliffs
that led straight down to the Carmel river
and slick tributaries that lick the ground and
drown out the sounds of all the critters
that quiver in the leaves.

The sticks was a dangerous place to be.)

This was where Dickie found himself
when his luck ran out-
dropped off on the East shelf of this mountainous hell,
alone in the dark with no one to help him home.
With the cloud cover out and the moon gone hiding,
he had a hard time finding his way with only pitch midnight
as his friend and no safety net to catch him should he fall.

Eventually, he stumbled across a one-room shack
hidden in the tall grass
with a wood rat nest out back
and a whole rack of venison
hung out to cure.

Dickie was sure he knew who lived here
-a local yokel sideshow freak
with single-digit teeth
who fancied himself a voodoo priest.
But Donnie Boone's eccentricities
were the very least of Dickie's concerns;
his feet were burning sore and he was yearning for
a place to rest his foggy head away from the threat
of becoming some mountain cat's feast.

(He'd heard recently the beasts were out
and prowling and he was sure he'd heard
them growling low from the bushes as he reached
the front door of Donnie Boone's Foreign Emporium:
A Wonderful Store of Sure-Fire Home Cures
From All Four Corners of God's Green Earth.)

Dickie smirked at the wood-burned sign
and raised his fist to knock
but stopped when the door burst open wide
and he found himself eye to eye with a man
who looked like Death warmed over
once or twice.
While Dickie tried to be polite,
he couldn't quite hide the shiver of disgust
that ran up his spine and Donnie Boone,
though near blind and a foot shorter in height,
still spied the slightly sick look
that crawled across his guest's crooked face.

But he heaved a sigh, stepped aside,
and Dickie stepped on in.

And that was the beginning of the end for him.

See, both men spent a while talking
(Or really, Dickie talked and Boone
just squawked and screeched
through his remaining teeth.)
as they downed good whiskey and
smoked good weed
until Dickie breached the boundary
that he never should have reached,
let alone crossed.
Poor Dickie, lost in his thoughts,
started on about his conquests
and all the pretty dresses he'd wrestled
from virgin skin.

It was too late to stop when he realized he'd mentioned
a pretty girl who favored his attention.
She was a sweet little thing,
petite and rare,
with hazel eyes and night sky hair;
her name was Amy Boone.

And Dickie Waynes was doomed.

She slipped from his lips
and he soon found himself
on the angry end of a tipsy man
with shotgun hands and a feral grin
that signaled his departure from
the sane and smarter world
we call reality.

And in that moment
Dickie met with the actuality
of his certain death
as he ducked his hazy head
and ran.

His feet, slipping on damp earth
and tripping like slurred words,
took him east
where Spanish Moss hangs off the trees
like some sort of green, veiled disease
and it whispers in the breeze little secrets
and teasing taunts.

Dickie never believed in supernatural beings
but his thoughts turn straight to haunted things
when he hears the creaks and pops of bark
peeling apart from old oak branches
and the lowing of cattle from far ranches'
a ghostly sort of sound that seems to surround his spine
and grip it tightly.

Suddenly he begins to think
that daylight isn't so bad;
after all, it's nice to see what makes that shuffling sound
'round your feet
because the not knowing is harder in the dark
and it lets your imagination run mad.
All the nasty things that were crawling inside Dickie's head
were starting to quicken the pace of
the snare drum in his chest
so he stopped to rest.
(For just a few seconds, he told himself,
trying to catch his breath.)

During his silent little respite
he could hear the desperate yowling
of the mountain cats prowling the mountain side
and he cried out in fright,
trying to find a way to save himself
until the night delved deep to the ground
and light found a path to the sky.

If he could survive until day
he'd be fine.
Until then he'd have to hide.

So he ran again
with nothing to guide him through the dark.
Unfortunately for Dickie, he'd come too far
and his legs couldn't slow him enough;
he tumbled through brush and chalk-rock rush,
bouncing off boulders and tree roots,
crushing his bones and tearing his tendons
in painful bending snaps.
One of his boots got caught on a jagged branch
and was ripped from his foot,
twisting the joint, putting it at an odd angle
so it stuck away from his body and tangled
in the undergrowth he now rolled through.
Mangled groans escaped his caved-in mouth
as he headed south down the mountain
towards the lower ground
spitting teeth from his broken jaw.

When he finally ceased moving
the only sound he heard was
the soothing rush of water
as the current brought him farther
from the river bank and deeper
into the Bucket's yawning maw.

It is there he stays,
alone,
seesawing over river stones
and the skin of the earth.

Nowadays he complains of the ache in his back,
the dirt packed deep in the cracks of his flesh,
and the cracking sounds his joints make
when the chill of the river
splinters his bones;

and no one calls him home.

by PrettyOdd
posted on 12/09/2010

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Comments: 20

Comment by PoeticPrincess: Jul 25, 2012 4:58 pm
This is extremely captivating with the wonderful flow and rhyme scheme. You are truly amazing with your rhymes. Lovely write. By the way thanks for commenting on one of my poems, I appreciate it.
Comment by grunty: Sep 20, 2011 12:25 pm
You have always had the very best rhyme structure...inside and out you are the best at it here.
And to write something this long and keep my attention is quite a feat!

Vote!
(I thought I had commented months ago...hehe!)
Comment by Holychild: May 12, 2011 8:24 pm
its story time. how would u like to be a screen writer one day.. great stuff. God bless u.
Love&PeaceOpen smile
Comment by Jenna21Bunnies: Jan 27, 2011 8:06 am
Ive read over tons of poems in my time, an i gotta say your work is prob one of the best ive read. Keep writing you have a talent for it honey.=)
Comment by PrettyOdd: Jan 14, 2011 5:16 pm
Mute, thank you. I don't know how I missed that. Fixin' it now.
Comment by Mute: Jan 13, 2011 11:05 pm
*her name was Amy Boone.
Comment by williambrown: Dec 28, 2010 1:28 am
Comment by grlonfire: Dec 20, 2010 5:23 pm
Dickie kinda reminds me of someone. hmm. Let's just hope that my someone's fate is different. Good Job Open smile
Comment by google: Dec 20, 2010 10:21 am
you should have been a drummer.

Comment by PrettyOdd: Dec 19, 2010 8:45 pm
Monkeyboy:

I actually dream in rhymes every now and then. I have to force myself to stay away from them when I don't want to rhyme. (And they still pop up every now and then.)

I would apologize to you but I enjoy your poetry too much to feel bad. Call me selfish.

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