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Richard Garcia
James Island, South Carolina
Poet
Interests: poetry, books, music, movies...
Recent Activity
Of course I don’t know the details of the Harvard case but this is what I do know: I once saw a man, a white guy, brought into a police station. The story was that he was a driver for a cola truck (he had his uniform on) and his boss, mad at him for goofing off, reported the truck stolen. The cops were a little pushy with him and he pushed back. They got a little rougher and he freaked, screaming and thrashing. Meanwhile, other prisoners in their cells were making fun at him, or yelling at him to shut up. The last I saw of the driver four cops had him by the arms and legs, and took him to a room behind two big steel doors. They used his head to open the doors. I once had a very angry cop point a gun at my head. They don’t like it when you escape. His face was red, he was trembling and his eyes were bugged out. I smiled at him nice, I was polite, and he did not shoot me. Moral: when stopped by the cops be nice. Don’t feed into their fears and stereotypes.
I am going to start a James Island tour that will include a haircut at the Bushwacker's; a night at the Sand Dollar Social Club, a surfing movie at The Daily Dose, a fish sandwich from a truck parked at Camp and Dills Bluff; a martini at our secret bench on the Stono River and a dip in the creek behind our house.
I don't know that one, but here is a beautiful dog poem from Verse Daily: An Ancient Dog Grave, Unearthed During Construction of the Athens Metro A.E. Stallings It is not the curled-up bones, nor even the grave That stops me, but the blue beads on the collar (Whose leather has long gone the way of hides), The ones to ward off evil. A careful master Even now protects a favorite, just so. But what evil could she suffer after death? I picture the loyal companion, bereaved of her master, Trotting the long, dark way that slopes to the river, Nearly trampled by all the nations marching down, One war after another, flood or famine, Her paws sucked by the thick, caliginous mud, Deep as her dewclaws, near the riverbank. In the press for the ferry, who will lift her into the boat? Will she cower under the pier and be forgotten, Forever howling and whimpering, tail tucked under? What stranger pays her passage? Perhaps she swims, Dog-paddling the current of oblivion. A shake as she scrambles ashore sets the beads jingling. And then, that last, tense moment — touching noses Once, twice, three times, with unleashed Cerberus. from his book Measure