Rick K. Reut Around A Word

(WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY)

…to any looking glass

with a couple of eyes

scanning a tear gas

chamber where someone cries

almost just like a rain-

coat on a cold, black night,

catching another train

of thoughts you want to write

down on a paper sheet.

It can feel like a leaf

from a tree on a street

you can barely leave

by just walking away

from what you want to say…

…to any looking glass with a couple of eyes scanning a tear gas chamber where someone cries almost just like a raincoat on a cold, black night, catching another train of thoughts you want to write down on a paper sheet. It can feel like a leaf from a tree on a street you can barely leave by just walking away from what you want to say…

September 2007

(THROUGH THE MORNING MIST)

…what looks like another lot

of waves licking the coast-

line when a weird thought

goes through your mind like a ghost

ship through the morning mist.

Sailing across the grey

emptiness from the east

before the break of day,

there is something you’ve got

in you that makes you cry.

Seeking the Face of GOD,

you look up at the sky

while a shower of leaves

mixes with a cold rain

sweeping the street. It leaves

tracks on the window pane.

Many leaves look like books’

pages without a word

turned by the wind. It looks

like there is a whole world

wedged in the window frame

of your mystified mind.

You seem to be in the same

state you so often find

and lose yourself in. Today,

you’re being lost and found

again. Time runs away,

and it’s hard to turn it around…

…what looks like another lot of waves licking the coastline when a weird thought goes through your mind like a ghost ship through the morning mist. Sailing across the grey emptiness from the east before the break of day, there is something you’ve got in you that makes you cry. Seeking the Face of GOD, you look up at the sky while a shower of leaves mixes with a cold rain sweeping the street. It leaves tracks on the window pane. Many leaves look like books’ pages without a word turned by the wind. It looks like there is a whole world wedged in the window frame of your mystified mind. You seem to be in the same state you so often find and lose yourself in. Today, you’re being lost and found again. Time runs away, and it’s hard to turn it around…

October 2007

(ONE MORE INTERSTATE)

…one more interstate

of your mind, you wait

alone by the wind-

ow. Though you try,

you never win.

Tears run dry

till nothing’s left

to cry with. You let

your looking glass

have more tear gas.

But the nearest tear

gas station’s not here,

and it’s hard to reach

it, not knowing which

way to go. You’re not

well: the vacant lot

behind the pane

drives you insane

as winter trees

begin to freeze

under a sheet

of snow. The street

is full of day-

dreams you can play

back in the dark.

By the main park,

you hear a shout

across the road.

You write about

it. But you wrote

about it before

(you barely know

when or what for).

A long time ago.

Still, you hope to come

back to it some-

day. Trying to find

a way to rewind…

…one more interstate of your mind, you wait alone by the window. Though you try, you never win. Tears run dry till nothing’s left to cry with. You let your looking glass have more tear gas. But the nearest tear gas station’s not here, and it’s hard to reach it, not knowing which way to go. You’re not well: the vacant lot behind the pane drives you insane as winter trees begin to freeze under a sheet of snow. The street is full of daydreams you can play back in the dark. By the main park, you hear a shout across the road. You write about it. But you wrote about it before (you barely know when or what for). It was long ago. Still, you hope to come back to it someday. Trying to find a way to rewind…

January 2008

(AFTER AN AFTERGLOW)

…on the corner of day

and the following night.

There are things one can say

that aren’t easy to write.

Staring at the snow-

pregnant clouds in the sky

after an afterglow,

sometimes one can see dry

autumn leaves in the wind.

Like sheets, torn from a tree,

they turn against their will

(almost like you and me),

running out of time,

let alone all alone luck.

You said I’m not your type,

and suddenly I was stuck…

…on the corner of day and the following night. There are things one can say that aren’t easy to write. Staring at the snow-pregnant clouds in the sky after an afterglow, sometimes one can see dry autumn leaves in the wind. Like sheets, torn from a tree, they turn against their will (almost like you and me), running out of time, let alone all their luck. You said I’m not your type, and suddenly I was stuck…

February 2008

(UNUTTERED WORDS)

…unuttered words

that stick to things

between two worlds.

One of them brings

out your soul —

or what is left

of it. You stroll

along the left

side of the street

into the heart

of a quite sweet

but bitter part

of your own past.

You walk into

the future past

the present two

days after you

return with new…

…unuttered words that stick to things between two worlds. One of them brings out your soul — or what is left of it. You stroll along the left side of the street into the heart of a quite sweet but bitter part of your own past. You walk into the future past the present two days after you return with new…

March 2008

(CHAMBER MAID)

…covered with softer snow-

white sheets from paperback

bookstores. You get to know

plenty of things in black

and white while watching a tear

gas chamber maid you made

friends with out of fear.

Having slipped out of the shade

she is in, shadows shake,

copying bare trees

in the wind. Wide awake,

they striptease for green leaves.

Someone sips from your cup

of tears. Your evening tea

and night coffee could be

cold seawater. You stop

and stare at the fireflies

that freeze in a window frame

of mind. Under sad skies,

they seem to stay the same —

as clouds line up like rain-

coats in a clothing store.

For a while, they remain

there. Just like before,

you come in touch with the dark-

ness of the night that feels

almost as warm as a stark-

naked woman in heels…

…covered with softer snow-white sheets from paperback bookstores. You get to know plenty of things in black and white while watching a tear gas chamber maid you made friends with out of fear. Having slipped out of the shade she is in, shadows shake, copying bare trees in the wind. Wide awake, they striptease for green leaves. Someone sips from your cup of tears. Your evening tea and night coffee could be cold seawater. You stop and stare at the fireflies that freeze in a window frame of mind. Under sad skies, they seem to stay the same — as clouds line up like raincoats in a clothing store. For a while, they remain there. Just like before, you come in touch with the darkness of the night that feels almost as warm as a stark-naked woman in heels…

April 2008

(TIME BOMB)

…where you hear the wind.

It blows up like a time

bomb, obeying the Will

of GOD. It sounds sublime

but begins to feel cold

despite the summer heat

waves still washing the gold

and silver of the night street…

…where you hear the wind. It blows up like a time bomb, obeying the Will of GOD. It sounds sublime but begins to feel cold despite the summer heat waves still washing the gold and silver of the night street…

June 2008

(IN A LOOKING GLASS)

…out in search of change,

new scenery and, perhaps,

texture of city maps

studied lately like strange

scripts. In a looking glass,

you sometimes see the face

value of empty space

at a random tear gas

station. You look inside

and behold a hot tear

gas chamber maid. In fear,

you think you’d better hide

while she makes your bed-

room door open at night,

throwing a beam of light

on what looks like a dead-

end street still sinking deep

into a sea of sleep.

Spilled like a glass of wine,

it drips onto the ground,

making the silence sound

like something you want to wipe…

…out in search of change, new scenery and, perhaps, texture of city maps studied lately like strange scripts. In a looking glass, you sometimes see the face value of empty space at a random tear gas station. You look inside and behold a hot tear gas chamber maid. In fear, you think you’d better hide while she makes your bedroom door open at night, throwing a beam of light on what looks like a dead-end street still sinking deep into a sea of sleep. Spilled like a glass of wine, it drips onto the ground, making the silence sound like something you want to wipe…

August 2008

(HIDING FROM GOD)

…WHO knows all there is to know.

Pages of autumn snow

are being turned in slow

motion. While you look

at them, the picture book

of the street tells you that

it’s not easy to get

to the opposite side

of whatever you hide

from yourself. It’s almost

like trying to hide from a ghost

haunting you. Hiding from

yourself in any form

is hard. But it is not

as hard as hiding from GOD…

…WHO knows all there is to know. Pages of autumn snow are being turned in slow motion. While you look at them, the picture book of the street tells you that it’s not easy to get to the opposite side of whatever you hide from yourself. It’s almost like trying to hide from a ghost haunting you. Hiding from yourself in any form is hard. But it is not as hard as hiding from GOD…

November 2008

(IN A CIRCLE OF TIME)

…if you want to go on

walking through a white wall.

The year is almost gone.

Winter follows the fall

in a circle of time.

There is plenty of space

on the paling face

of the earth glazed with rime…

…if you want to go on walking through a white wall. The year is almost gone. Winter follows the fall in a circle of time. There is plenty of space on the paling face of the earth glazed with rime…

December 2008

(MINSK AVENUE)

…who then said a lot of words

but not a single thing

about how each silver ring

of smoke you exhale works.

The sad sky has put on

another long raincoat

where the day once wrote

all the words that are gone

now. The clouds give way to

the color of a new moon,

pouring pensive mood

that tears one into two

roads covered either with snow

or a thick layer of dust.

You live deep in the past

indefinite tense and show

up in the present like

a ghost rattling a chain

of thoughts attached to my brain.

It looks like a yellow line

around a scene of crime,

which one wouldn’t commit

for any reason. Rime

covers another street

in a totally different state

of mind. It keeps getting late.

The city is falling asleep.

There is no one around.

The wind is starting to sweep

another deserted playground

where no one wants to play

back the film of the night

shadows that often stay

out. Like black and white

pictures of smiles on

the full lips of the moon,

they’re going to last till dawn

erases them. Quite soon,

this month may be over and

another month may start

and last to the very end

of this time in the heart

of the city. Like my

heart, it beats on a train

of memories rushing by

a wavering window pane

on that Minsk avenue

where I first met you…

…who then said a lot of words but not a single thing about how each silver ring of smoke you exhale works. The sad sky has put on another long raincoat where the day once wrote all the words that are gone now. The clouds give way to the color of a new moon, pouring pensive mood that tears one into two roads covered either with snow or a thick layer of dust. You live deep in the past indefinite tense and show up in the present like a ghost rattling a chain of thoughts attached to my brain. It looks like a yellow line around a scene of crime, which one wouldn’t commit for any reason. Rime covers another street in a totally different state of mind. It keeps getting late. The city is falling asleep. There is no one around. The wind is starting to sweep another deserted playground where no one wants to play back the film of the night shadows that often stay out. Like black and white pictures of smiles on the full lips of the moon, they’re going to last till dawn erases them. Quite soon, this month may be over and another month may start and last to the very end of this time in the heart of the city. Like my heart, it beats on a train of memories rushing by a wavering window pane on that Minsk avenue where I first met you…

February 2009

(SOMEONE LIKE YOU)

…with it. Another day

is starting to slip away.

Can you still hear me

at least in your memory?

I talk to myself and to

you or someone like you.

I talk to myself about three

times a day. Planting a tree

of that knowledge, I grow

food for thought on this snow-

white sheet of paper. Can

I ever become a man

of letters? Sometimes I wage

wars of words on a page

of someone’s book. I still

sit by the window sill,

listening to the door-

bell not ring anymore.

As I stare at the wall,

I wait for the night to fall

for you. In the silence of

the evening, I fall in love…

…with it. Another day is starting to slip away. Can you still hear me at least in your memory? I talk to myself and to you or someone like you. I talk to myself about three times a day. Planting a tree of that knowledge, I grow food for thought on this snow-white sheet of paper. Can I ever become a man of letters? Sometimes I wage wars of words on a page of someone’s book. I still sit by the window sill, listening to the doorbell not ring anymore. As I stare at the wall, I wait for the night to fall for you. In the silence of the evening, I fall in love…

March 2009

(SEVERAL SLEEPY STREETS)

…where these sleepy streets

make you break into bits

and pieces of a jigsaw-

puzzled look you once saw

out of a looking glass

of shame. It wouldn’t pass

out of mind or out

of time. Shadows of doubt

seem to fall on your face.

You start to stare into space

rolling outside the glass

window of an empty bus,

though there’s no real need

to see the city bleed

through the cracks in the wall-

paper sky. In the fall

of the rain, lightning splits

several sleepy streets

into numerous parts.

Almost like broken hearts,

they paint this picture with

the pain of a wild wind

that still howls outside.

Looking for places to hide,

you try your best to forget

your fear at least for that

moment. You want to throw

it out of your head and know

a little less than you do.

You want to sleep more to

think less. You seem to make

another massive mistake

every time you begin

to think of something between

splinters of shattered glass

dreams that used to be us…

…where these sleepy streets make you break into bits and pieces of a jigsaw-puzzled look you once saw out of a looking glass of shame. It wouldn’t pass out of mind or out of time. Shadows of doubt seem to fall on your face. You start to stare into space rolling outside the glass window of an empty bus, though there’s no real need to see the city bleed through the cracks in the wallpaper sky. In the fall of the rain, lightning splits several sleepy streets into numerous parts. Almost like broken hearts, they paint this picture with the pain of a wild wind that still howls outside. Looking for places to hide, you try your best to forget your fear at least for that moment. You want to throw it out of your head and know a little less than you do. You want to sleep more to think less. You seem to make another massive mistake every time you begin to think of something between splinters of shattered glass dreams that used to be us…

April 2009

(THE TOWN OF YOUR MIND)

…who’ll tell you all

about the Whole

Wide World in One

Word of THE ONE.

The wind blows in your face

as you walk through this place

to that time in the town

of your mind. Down

or up the street,

you hope to meet

a Herald from

GOD in human form…

…who’ll tell you all about the Whole Wide World in One Word of THE ONE. The wind blows in your face as you walk through this place to that time in the town of your mind. Down or up the street, you hope to meet a Herald from GOD in human form…

May 2009

(STARING AT THE DAWN)

…as you go on and on

and on, staring at the dawn

through a pair of sun-

glasses. You are someone

who is used to having lots

of highly unusual thoughts

with every attempt to find

a piece of the peace of mind

you have been looking for

since you started this war

of words no one can win

in the end. As the wind

strengthens, the rain seems hard

enough to break your heart,

although it may be made of

what appears to be love

with an admixture of hate.

When you go on a date

with yourself, you may like

to think that you live your life

as if it was some strange word,

which no one has ever heard

being said or has seen

written. Sometimes you seem

like you don’t even exist.

You are just like a twist

of time turning through space.

You seem to know your place,

which is not here, but not

there either. You’ve got

no place to go and no

place to stay since you know

no one and no one knows

you. You’ve never been close

to anyone. No one has

ever been close to you as

someone who wants to know you.

Now you think that you knew

it when you thought you were free.

You feel like a memory

everyone wants to forget

as soon as they see you at

the other end of the way

home. At the break of day

in the middle of June,

the wind whistles its tune

outside the window again.

It looks like it’s going to rain

harder than yesterday. It

may flood the entire street

you walk alone to hear

something that feels like a tear

gas bomb begin to explode

inside you. There is a load

on your mind in the shape

of a videotape

recording. It’s a tough time

you don’t even want to rhyme

about. Trying to run away

from yourself, you start to play

back the past in your head

and drive yourself as mad

as the fastest race car,

hoping it won’t go too far…

…as you go on and on and on, staring at the dawn through a pair of sunglasses. You are someone who is used to having lots of highly unusual thoughts with every attempt to find a piece of the peace of mind you have been looking for since you started this war of words no one can win in the end. As the wind strengthens, the rain seems hard enough to break your heart, although it may be made of what appears to be love with an admixture of hate. When you go on a date with yourself, you may like to think that you live your life as if it was some strange word, which no one has ever heard being said or has seen written. Sometimes you seem like you don’t even exist. You are just like a twist of time turning through space. You seem to know your place, which is not here, but not there either. You’ve got no place to go and no place to stay since you know no one and no one knows you. You’ve never been close to anyone. No one has ever been close to you as someone who wants to know you. Now you think that you knew it when you thought you were free. You feel like a memory everyone wants to forget as soon as they see you at the other end of the way home. At the break of day in the middle of June, the wind whistles its tune outside the window again. It looks like it’s going to rain harder than yesterday. It may flood the entire street you walk alone to hear something that feels like a tear gas bomb begin to explode inside you. There is a load on your mind in the shape of a videotape recording. It’s a tough time you don’t even want to rhyme about. Trying to run away from yourself, you start to play back the past in your head and drive yourself as mad as the fastest race car, hoping it won’t go too far…