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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 

 

 

GOD'S AT THE NEW YORK BOOKSTORE
by Veryle Rupp

 

 

 

 

HOMESICK 

The sister: I played with, in the summer
plastic pool in our front yard when
it was a ninety-nine degree hot out
who was put in the institution at six.
The mother: Who brought me up
and refused to smoke pot with
me and told me at graduation
Don’t come back now go live your life.
She died in that growing up house of mine
so I sold it to pay for her plot.
And the father: I never knew but heard of
and tried not to be like but ended up
looking exactly like as a reminder that
I had a father who really did love me,
it was the divorce.  So I put him in a can
and buried what was left of our relationship
at the foot of his mom’s grave.
My grandparents: The farmhouse
is just a black top road now
and the rabbits and birds I hunted
ran north to Colorado. And my red Willys
Jeep rusts away in a wheat field.
Oh, I guess the town: I thought I knew,
that is a small town city with concerns.
Then now: I sit in a metro city of stars
teaching English and math and how not
to be rude to the children who care
nothing about my heritage so I go on waiting
for Christmas vacation after the long
Thanksgiving break when I sat at my table alone,
eating tuna in a can with a carrot for my health
waiting for a long happy life.
Good God: Can I get any less homesick?
I must get home as Dor-o-thy did,
walk by the house I grew up in
look inside and feel the thick air.
Go visit a grave or two, put flowers down,
visit the marble church and pray a prayer
I no longer believe in.
Homesick: This is death of the self, closing in.
Snow is falling somewhere in Kansas and
I have to be reborn a different person.
The cold haunts my bones for two pair of socks
and jacket to go outside, warm up the car,
sweep the flakes of ice sleet and snow,
drive to the store and pick up a bottle
of Mogen David grape wine.
I make a call: To beg a friend to pine
the ending that will come soon.
I am homesick
The old school girlfriend trudges
The snow and cold to
come over and share the fermented
body wine, heat up the couch embracing
what never happened for us
now old people love,
petting the skin that was once different
and how it still looks the same to our recollection.
It is coming: To me the who I am inklings.
Not a place to visit or see or touch as
they are back there and part of me here.
Never leave: I can’t go home
as death is permanent
I am so homesick for the old me
who left yesterday leaving me to this,
vague faint shadow knowledge
a feeling akin to being homesick.
I am from Kansas: I am from Kansas.
I cared about that then and homesick is akin
to sitting in a room painted flesh white
without curtains and not knowing who left me.
I am changing and I am homesick.
I get to move on leaving behind.
I am changing and I am homesick.

 

 

 

 

 

I Wonder How Father's Fresh Ashes

Are Doing In The Ground.
Have they sunk deep
into the earth and become a
part of the soil now

When his body was cremated
I worried if he felt the heat
and flames. Were there any lingering
leftover dreams that turned
into screams inside his head
maybe a nightmare of wanting
to live longer

Then there might have been
a last minute thought when
the flames engulfed his
old dead flesh
"My god, my god, if only
I had known I would
feel my burning body
after death."

Should the trip to God's house
be taken through
slow decomposing
or did father get there faster
than those buried in watertight
metal caskets ten feet
beneath the ground.

All and all I can't say
I miss him like I do Mother
Father prepared me
for his death by
never being around
in life
Either way he took
the fast trip outta here
Got it done with and left

Always an on the go that guy.

 

 

 

God's at the NY Book Store

 

Trying to find god in New York 
I figure he hangs out
at Colony book store
looking for self-help books
to ease the stress
of everyday holiness.

Heard he's got a bet on a game
and sits at the slickest
hippest sports bar in town
waiting for his bookie to call.

Jack the bartender at
Christian's Hangout said 
he saw him down
on 41st and seventh 
loitering round port authority 
seeking a prostitute to forgive 
with a ten thousand dollar grant
to pass out to the right candidate 
to go back to school
plus six years of psychotherapy.

Jesus- sounds like god is
off the deep end this time.

Yeah – I thought he had
his life together now 
I mean look at all the wealth
he has been passing out lately 
I bet he’s gone, psycho depressive  
passing out blessings
of life and treating people
like his children or lambs
or some such thing
Personally, I know the
Dude’s delusional.

 

 

 

Dear - Anyone out there

seen my mom, dad
and yes my sister
as they all passed away
some time ago and
I do miss them plenty.

As Christmas nears
should you see my dad
stealing our Xmas tree
from the Dillion’s lot
at 3 a.m. - tell him to
get home I miss his
Marlboro kisses.

If you run into my mom
at Kansas Savings
getting money from the
Christmas Club: tell her
I washed the dishes,
emptied the trash and
cleaned the bathroom
and yes she can hug me
as long as she wants
I won’t push her away.

Oh- Sis, I promise not to bitch
about the trip to visit you in
the institution after all you are deaf, blind
but you are my older sis.
Right? You can’t deny I’m your brother
Just try.  My missing hair
was once curly like yours.

And family, I want
three birthday presents this year,
not one, just cause I was born
January 4th I ain’t buying
that excuse, “We gave you
your birthday present on Xmas!” 

So, I’d send a card
but this is the only way
I can mail it. 
My wish this year:

What-ta-ya-say we
bundle up warm,
tie that beat up Ford car hood
to the back of the tractor
and go for a cold snow sleigh ride
down that county dirt road
out near Solomon, Kansas,
then after have hot
cherry apple rhubarb pie
and leftovers together.

I miss you guys,
something awful,
Love you,

 

 

 

 

The Orange Sweater Cynical Men

She is normal looking
Except for the hole in
Her orange sweater
The hole that sat ripped and
Tattered with fraying threads
Hanging out every which way
It lay there on the tip of her right breast
I could see motherhood
A dark shadow beneath the surface
Of the ribbed orange sweater
I lifted my veil of desperation
For a moment to look her way
Thinking she could
Be a woman I could sleep with
Make love to sex it up with
But when she looked my way
I could see more desperation
Than I had
I looked out the door of the
Bus picking up more street people
I understand now why we don’t
Make love to everyone we meet
Looking back
I see the way she puts
Her makeup on now
Thick in a stick, red
With a hand mirror and
The sunlight showing in
She is desperate
No woman purses her
Lips that hard
when she puts her Lips on 
She hates sex
I can tell she loves to love
Men but in her mind with
Ownership she is a frantic
Woman of desire who waits
For it to happen
She is a beggar of time
The bus pulls away
I see her begging for change
How could she beg like that
The orange sweater is not Tattered
That hole isn’t that large
Very mom holding kind
Of breasts for such a young
Mother woman’s face
I saw that hole in her sweater

 

 

 

 

Her Age

Her little black unkept wig
Sat on her head.

Her missing front teeth
Laughed at the taste of the world

Her eyes panicked at the
Loss.

Her hand held her up
Next to the counter. 

She was talking to herself
It seemed.

She might have been
Talking to the world

She had dementia or the Alzeh
I assumed.

Waving to the fella until
he approached

Forcing her hand back
on the counter to steady

Then pointing to the floor
Desperate

And the fella leaned over
And handed her the cane

She and her cane glanced
past the door of the
Coffee shop

 

 

About the Author:

Veryle Rupp has performed in roles from Shakespeare to Tennessee Williams. He has worked in such New York theaters as the Brooklyn Academy of Music, NYC Opera, Soho Rep. and Women's Interart, as well as a command performance for the late President Vaclev Havel of Czechoslovakia in the play Morass produced by Paul Newman. He was trained in the classics at Webber Douglas Academy, London, England and holds a BFA in Theater Arts. Veryle is a lifetime member of The Actors Studio.
Growing Up: "By the time I was ten I'd visited every state in the US and seen things most kids will never see in a lifetime. I was working the road with my dad moving families coast to coast. When summer was over it was back to the Kansas small-town life and spending my weekends on my grandparent's farm feeding chickens and pigs."
Veryle was also a teacher in the LAUSD school district.  He was rated a highly effective teacher in the district before he retired. “Writing was the key to learning.”
http://projects.latimes.com/value-added/teacher/veryle-rupp/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     
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