all the riches in the world

when i was a boy
i spent two hours per day
after school at the
Glen Allan Recreation Center
where the Edmonton Oilers
used to practise.

like every good Alberta boy
i had rookie cards
of every Oiler:
Wayne Gretzsky,
Mark Messier,
Yari Kuri,
Kevin Lowe,
Paul Coffee,
Glen Anderson,
Grant Fuhr,
etc.

this was before Wayne Gretzky
was known as ‘The Great One’
& years before the Oilers
won their 5 stanley cups
& achieved
their “Dynasty” status.

happy circumstance
enabled me to meet every player
& have every card autographed.

one summer
more concerned w/ pimping
my bicycle
than about hockey
i took a wooden clothespin
& put my autographed cards
in the spokes of my back tire.

it seemed like a good idea
at the time
& the machine-gun fire
of the hockey cards
hitting the spokes
was pure magic.

riding my bicycle that summer
became a world unto itself.

last year an autographed
Wayne Gretzky rookie card
sold on Ebay
for 2.3 million dollars.

as i remember that summer
& those hockey cards
getting chewed into confetti
it’s as if my spirit itself
was clothespined
instead.

still,
w/ a stack of unpaid bills mounting
as time wages war upon my flesh
& my organs threaten mutiny,
i would trade
all the riches in the world
to be that poor boy again;
soaring down the street
young & healthy & free
w/ my machine gun sound effects

heralding my approach.
_________________________________________________________

lines written for Betsy

my junior high class
went on a field trip
to a horse ranch.
the ranch hand
asked us
if we’d ever
rode before.
some said yes
& were given fast horses;
some said no
& were given slow horses.
i’d never been atop a horse
in my entire life
so i was given an old nag
named Betsy.

our teacher
gave us strict instructions
not to break formation.
we mounted
& started down the path.
Betsy, however,
had no regard for formation;
she broke into a full gallop;
w/ my teacher screaming
& shaking his fist,
Betsy & i left everyone
in the dust.

like a kamikaze cowboy
ducking to avoid branches;
gripping saddle horn;
legs furiously pumping;
Betsy poured everything
into our mad dash
through the wilderness.

the ride
was supposed to last all afternoon;
Betsy & i did it in 30 minutes.
we finally stopped at the coral.
the ranch hand
gave me a sponge & water
& stressed how important it was
to cool the horse down;
that it could possibly die
w/out it.

i dropped the sponge & water
& stretched myself out in the grass
beside the sweaty, panting horse;
daydreaming while i waited
for the rest of my class.
i wasn’t going to waste my time
sponging down a horse
that had nearly killed me.

as i remember this now
i’m reminded of those rare moments
when time stood still
steeped in meaning
& i felt truly alive:
the fistfights,
the car crashes,
the overdoses,
my botched suicide attempt;
& that 30 minute terror gallop
through the strange trees.

the living don’t appreciate
those rare moments
when the monotony of life
is broken
by the sheer energy
of being alive

only the dead appreciate
such moments:
their pounding heart
as it threatens to burst
from their chest;
the flesh separating
as edge of the blade
slices through their wrist;
the cool wind as it whips
through their hair
to the skull beneath;

chilling them
to the very core.

 

 

Wolfgang Carstens, publisher at Epic Rites Press, lives in Mittinhed, Alberta w/ his wife, 5 children & two cats. His poetry is printed on the backs of unpaid bills.